


Men And Angels

by Laora



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Body Horror, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Time Travel, a whole lot of Elric family angst, old story cross-posted from FFN
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-01
Updated: 2012-04-01
Packaged: 2020-12-16 18:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 56,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21040400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laora/pseuds/Laora
Summary: Trisha can't understand; she's terrified, but she has to stay calm. Her boys are gone, replaced by her sons from the future...and something, she knows, is terribly wrong.





	1. recollection

**Author's Note:**

> i just have a lot of feelings about this fic, okay
> 
> i did some style/QOL improvements in here, in case anyone read this on FFN and thinks it feels different. (I was really, _really_ into ellipses when I wrote this. I cut it down from 1340 to 313 in the document, someone send help)
> 
> I would consider this fic emotionally taxing, so if you're sensitive to that kind of thing, please read with care!
> 
> oh, Maes Hughes lives bc he is Best Dad

_ r e w i n d _

.

.

.

.

The screams that emanate from the other side of the house are the most terrible that Trisha has ever heard.

She drops the cooking pot with a  _ crash, _ running toward the sound even before the voices register as her sons'. They're in the study, she knows, poring over alchemy texts she can't hope to understand. When they had expressed an interest in alchemy about a year ago, she had been overjoyed; they were taking after their father, with their incredible leaps of logic and brilliant minds—she was sure they would grow up to be just as amazing as her husband.

Now, though, she is reminded of the less reputable side of alchemy. Van had never gone into detail, but that alchemy, that darkness, was what caused him to leave.

(It's been two years, now, with no news. She tries to stay strong for her sons, but...)

Now, all she can think is that this side of alchemy may have taken her boys away as well.

She slams open the door to the study with wide eyes and trembling hands, ready to do anything— _ anything— _ to save her sons.

But it's too late...

The light from the transmutation is already dimming...

And her boys are nowhere in sight.

_ "Edward! Alphonse!" _

There is no answer for her. The room is empty.

She drops to her knees and  _ screams. _

* * *

Pinako answers the phone when she calls. Trisha's hysterical, can barely speak, but the old woman gets the gist of her half-coherent babbling. She promises to be over with Urey as soon as possible.

Just as she's hanging up, just when she thinks this situation can't possibly get any worse...a hugely loud  _ crash _ echoes through the house. Trisha jumps and spins wildly, wondering what could have possibly—

_ The study. _

But when she makes her way back upstairs, half-terrified and half-hopeful, all she sees is a blonde girl with braided hair, lying face-down in the center of the circle. In addition, the armor from the corner lays there, with a strange symbol painted on its shoulder and a sort of loincloth around its waist.

They're not her sons, and Trisha’s knees give out as she sobs.

* * *

When Pinako and Urey finally arrive, she doesn't know how much time has passed since it happened. All she knows is that the girl hasn't moved; her sons are nowhere in the house...

She's failed as a mother.

Urey gently leads her to a chair  _ (Van used to sit there for hours on end)  _ while Pinako gingerly steps into the circle, toward the girl. "You didn't say anything about  _ this, _ " she says, raising an eyebrow as she kneels down and gently flips the girl over. She pauses a moment, studying her, and then looks toward Trisha with something like astonishment on her face.

"...What is it?" She almost doesn't want to know, but she doubts this day could get any worse.

"It's...well..." Pinako shifts, giving Trisha a clear view of the child's face. If it weren't for Urey's steadying hands, she's sure she'd be keeled over on the ground.

It's— 

It's  _ Edward. _

But it  _ can't  _ be!

Her Ed is five years old, barely into school, and this boy is in his mid teens. As she looks closer, though...she sees his bangs and the cowlick she's always been fond of, the tilt of his nose and the slant of his brows...

If her Edward grows another ten years or so, he would look just like this boy.

But...it doesn't make sense!

(The small voice in the back of her mind reminds her that  _ nothing _ is making sense right now.)

But this—it just  _ can't _ be happening. What kind of transmutation could  _ age  _ the alchemist involved? And even if that's truly what happened, then _ where is Al? _

Before she can think on this anymore, however, the boy _ (who is not Edward)  _ moans and tries to sit up. Pinako is upon him in an instant, gripping his shoulders tight (she jerks and stares at him for a moment, but Trisha is too far gone to notice) as he sits up.

"Are you all right?" Pinako asks after several seconds of silence. The boy's eyes are half-lidded, staring ahead without seeing as he tries to wake from unconsciousness. He moans again as his eyes (they're gold, but there has to be another explanation—there  _ has _ to be) finally focus on Pinako.

"Does anything hurt?" she asks again, slipping into her well-honed doctor persona as she pats him down with one hand. The other is latched tightly to his left arm, keeping him upright.

The boy mumbles something incoherent, and Pinako has to ask him to repeat himself before they can understand—"What're you doing here, Granny?"

_ Granny. _ Only three people call Pinako  _ Granny _ ...and two of them are missing.  _ (Ed...Al... _ Right now, she can only hope and pray that they're all right.)

"Let's start with who  _ you _ are, young man," Pinako says, and her voice is, perhaps, a bit harsh for the situation. The boy is barely lucid, and even if Trisha is desperate for information, he's only a child, just like her sons.

The boy's eyes snap open the rest of the way, staring at Pinako incredulously. "What're you—where  _ are _ we? Granny, what's going on?"

It's amazing, the way he's suddenly alert when he realizes that the situation is strange to him. Her Edward, innocent and five years old, would never be so high-strung, but she doesn't know whether to be reassured by this or worried.

"Tell us who you are, and where Edward and Alphonse went, and then we'll talk," Pinako says in reply, her steely eyes only hardening as she holds his gaze.

"What—Granny, it's me! Ed! And Al's right here!" He gestures to the still-motionless suit of armor before returning his attention to Pinako. "What're you talking—"

Urey moves from his position next to Trisha after making sure she's all right, kneeling next to Pinako. "Mom, lay off, he might be—"

_ "Uncle Rockbell?" _ The boy's face drains of color so quickly that Trisha thinks he might pass out then and there. But he only sways in Pinako's grip, his eyes full of so much disbelief that Trisha has to wonder why.

"Ed," Urey says carefully, obviously shaken up by the recognition in the strange boy's voice. "What's going on? You and Al were in here, practicing alchemy—but then your mom heard screams and you were gone.”

He looks ready to go on, but the boy ( _ Edward? _ ) jerks so badly that Pinako loses her grip. His gaze, which had been locked on Urey and full of shock, snaps around the room at dizzying speeds until it finally comes to rest on Trisha.

There's a second's pause while they only stare at each other. Trisha works to keep her expression kind, even as his turns to one of abject horror. It's clear he knows no more than they do, and if this is her son, sent from the future or aged or...

_ "Mom?" _

The pain, desperation, and unparalleled hope in his voice pull at her heart in ways she's never imagined. That's Edward's voice; that's Edward's face; those are Edward's eyes, looking up at her with such admiration that all she wants to do is pull him into her arms and never let go.

"Edward?" It comes out as a question, even though she's sure this is her son. It doesn't make sense— _ nothing  _ makes sense—but if this is her son, no matter how old...it's her duty to make him feel better.

"What—" His eyes are suddenly full of such agony (they've always been so expressive) as he only continues to stare at her. It's unnerving, but she holds his gaze, hoping to offer some comfort. He is her son, but at the same time, he isn't...

(Is he from the future, somehow? Is alchemy capable of such a thing?)

Before anyone can say anything more, however, a huge  _ clanking _ comes from in front of Edward, and the suit of armor sits up. Whoever is wearing it must be enormous; the plate mail is nearly seven feet tall and very broad-chested. (But Edward had said it was Alphonse?)

"Brother?" Nobody's mouth moves, but the armored head turns, looking all around the room. "Colonel?  _ Edward?" _

It does sound like Alphonse— _ remarkably _ like him—and while she wonders at the fact that he asks after a military officer, that doesn't matter right now. Edward rips his gaze at last from Trisha's with what seems to be a great deal of effort, turning toward the armor.

"Al...I don't know what's going on."

It's clear that he's trying to sound brave, to be strong for his little brother. But it is clear they have no better idea of what’s going on than the rest of them. She can hear the terror in Ed’s voice, clear as day, and it only makes her apprehension worse.

(And why is Alphonse wearing such a huge metal suit? She has so many questions...)

"Bro—" Al turns toward his brother; his relief is clear in his voice and the way his body relaxes. But then he sees Trisha, over Edward's head, and he jerks with a huge  _ clang _ of his armor. "What— _ Mom—?" _

She can't see his face, can't see even an inch of her baby boy, but his body is rigid in something she can only read as terror.  _ Why  _ are they so surprised to see her;  _ why _ is such a horrible pit of apprehension forming in her gut?

She has no answers for these questions as they gnaw at her mind, but she knows they aren't as important as her boys right now. Even if they're teenagers, brought here by some mysterious happening, they're still her sons...

And right now, that's all that matters.

.  
  
.  
  
.  
  
.

_ f a s t f o r w a r d _

.

. 

.

.

Roy has been fairly certain for a while, now, that he has the Elric brothers figured out.

At their core, they are each other's  _ lives _ —their motivation and family and  _ everything. _ Ed will do anything for Al; Al will sacrifice everything for Ed; their relationship is strong and undeniable.

So when the blinding blue light of a transmutation fills the office, when Roy yanks on his gloves without thinking and the others draw their guns, two terrified voices split the air—

_ "Al!" _

_ "Brother!" _

The light is only intensifying, and while Roy feels nothing of the alchemy affecting himself, that means nothing for the others under his command (subordinates—friends— _ family _ —he'll do anything to keep them safe). He's running around his desk, running toward Edward and Alphonse, where the light seems to be originating from ( _ if they're hurt he'll never forgive himself _ )—

There are two final, horrifying screams, and then the light dims.

The Elrics are gone.

Roy's gaze snaps around in desperation, searching searching searching for  _ (but never finding) _ the two boys in his charge. They aren't here; there are no loudmouthed comments from Ed, nothing of Al's calming presence. As he meets the gazes of each of his coworkers, he knows they have all come to the same conclusion.

That transmutation—whatever kind of alchemy it was—it took them away, somehow, somewhere...

Before he can snap into action, before he can do anything but stare numbly at the space where the boys were standing, there is another great flash of light (Roy is poised to snap in an instant, and Riza and the others are backing up to the wall, guns at the ready). Two small figures hit the ground and are still.

They aren't the Elrics—that much is clear. These are too small; as Roy does his best to focus on them, he realizes that they are only children.

The flash of alchemy has faded away, now, and Roy cautiously steps forward. A glance at the floor, at the ceiling, shows there is no circle...but if it wasn't alchemy, what could it be?

He's blinking the spots from his eyes as he strains to focus on these people that have replaced Edward and Alphonse. One is moving sluggishly, and he holds up one hand again, wary and alert. If this is a Homunculus, something that is out to hurt him or anyone else—

(that may have already hurt the Elrics)

—he is taking no chances. But the figure is slowly sitting up, now, holding its head and staring around with golden eyes.

( _ Ed's eyes. _ What is going on?)

The others are moving forward, guns lowered but still cocked, confused and unsure and worried. But the boy is perhaps five years old, and the other is no older; Roy doubts greatly that they are a threat. All he needs to worry about now is  _ what they're doing here _ and where Ed and Al have gone.

(The boy is strangely familiar as Roy looks down at him, but he can't understand why right now.)

"Al? Where're you?" The child is the first to break the silence, seemingly unaware of the group of adults hovering feet from him. This simple question, the worry saturating his voice, jars Roy, sounds uncomfortably familiar...and then he realizes.

The way he holds himself is vastly different; his eyes aren't nearly as hardened and aged; this little boy is far too young— but he looks  _ just like Edward. _

Riza is stepping closer now, crouching down to be at the boy's eye level as he starts to look around, alarmed by the lack of response. "What's your name?" she asks cautiously. Though her gun is in its holster, Roy can see the tension in her shoulders, hear it in her voice. "What are you doing here?"

The boy does not answer; his gaze has landed on the other figure, and he lets out a cry of alarm as he launches himself toward it. "Al! Are you okay?"

It's familiar,  _ too _ familiar—and Roy watches with a strange sort of dread as the boy (who looks so much like Edward) tries to shake the other into awareness.

(It works, but Roy isn't sure whether to be relieved or alarmed.)

This second boy does not look familiar, but he is jarringly similar to the Ed-boy as he sits up as well. "Brother...did it work...?"

"Did what work?" Roy has crouched down next to Riza, and though his snap reflex has relaxed, his gloves are still firmly on his hands. "What did you do?"

The younger boy (younger but taller, it seems—something insidious is worming its way through Roy's gut) looks up at his voice, and he gives a little squeal before backpedaling as best he can. "Brother—Brother—who are they—?"

"We're not going to hurt you," Riza says, and she seems to have come to a similar conclusion as Roy; her eyes are much kinder than they were before. "What are your names? Do you know what happened?"

"Mom says not to talk to strangers," the older boy says, and a very Ed-like pout crosses his features before he turns to the other boy. "Where are we? The circle should have worked—"

_ "What circle?" _ Roy leans closer, and the boys recoil quickly. The older one is holding the other behind him, looking ready to protect him with everything he has if the need arises. This is too familiar: a scene plays out in Roy's mind, terrifying and far too real.

_ Ed. Defenseless on the ground in the pouring rain, bargaining with a serial killer for his brother's life, prepared to do absolutely _ anything— 

"My name's Roy. I'm an alchemist too," he says after a moment, pulling off one glove with only a bit of apprehension. He hands it over for the boys' inspection. "You did some sort of transmutation, right? Maybe I can help, if you tell me what happened."

He has very little experience with small children, and he's not quite sure what he's doing. Sure, there's Elysia, but he's known her since she was  _ born _ . And, after all, Maes is always around to help out.

But with these two—if they're the boys he thinks they are—he doesn't even know where to start.

"This is for...fire, right?" the younger boy says, breaking him out of his quickly spiraling thoughts. "With the salamander, and the sharp corners?"

The other boy makes a noise of agreement, and Roy hears Breda whistle from his right. For a boy—maybe four years old—to figure that out...

"Can you tell me what your names are? Maybe I can help you get home," he offers, doing his best to make his usually authoritative voice sound friendly. "What was your circle supposed to do?"

The boys share a glance before the older one sighs huffily. "'M Ed Elric, 'n that's my brother Al. We were trying to see the future with one of Dad's circles to show Mom everything'll be okay, 'cause she's sad a lot now and we thought..."

He trails off, a rather somber expression on his face. Roy tries to keep his own face understanding, to stay calm for these two children (who he knows, but doesn't, all at the same time).  _ Their mother. _ They can't be any older than four and five—Trisha Elric had died when Ed was barely six—"All right, Ed, I'll do my best to help. But first..." He swallows, knowing the answer...but he has to make sure. "Can you tell me what year it is? And where you're supposed to be?"

The boy looks at him strangely, but answers after a moment—"1904...at home with Mom..." His eyes widen, looking around the room as if expecting her to step out from behind one of the desks. "Where is she?  _ Where are we? _ "

"You're in Central, Ed," Roy says, and he must swallow to make his voice as neutral as possible before he continues, "and it's 1914."


	2. reminiscence

_ r e w i n d _

.

.

.

.

It's been at least half an hour, and Ed still can't bring himself to tear his gaze from his mother. Somehow, he's forgotten how beautiful she is.

Even if this is only a dream, it's the most wonderful he's had in years.

The Rockbells have left, though Granny sent Ed a piercing look before the door closed behind her. It's strange to see her like this, the way she was ten years ago. Her face isn't quite as lined; her hair is a little less gray...but at least she's a familiar face in these strange circumstances.

Uncle Rockbell and his mom, on the other hand...

He's watching her every move, now, as she bustles around the kitchen, making dinner. There is a crease in her brow—surely, she is worried about her younger set of sons—but as she catches Ed's eye, she beams reassuringly at him.

(He finds himself unable to breathe, because this is far too real and far too painful but he can't decide whether he wants to wake up.)

"Do you two still like stew?" Her melodious voice carries across the kitchen as she chops carrots. Ed almost forgets to answer; he is too wrapped up in his mother.

"'Course, it's the best."

(He does his best to inject cheer into his voice, be happy for her, because that's what she deserves, but...)

He's watching, from the corner of his eye, as Al seems to shrink in his chair; his shoulders slump; his face is downcast, as if he's staring a hole through his hands. And even though the heavy weight of his guilt and shame has burdened Ed for four years  _ (it's his fault his brother's life is ruined) _ , he doesn't think it's ever been as strong as it is now.

Al can't experience this miracle—not really. He can see their mom and their old house, can hear her voice and the birds outside, but he can't do anything else. He can't smell the unique scent their house had always contained; he can't feel the smooth wood of the table they know so well; he can't taste his mother's cooking...

Whatever Ed is feeling, whatever this cacophony of hysterical emotions is within his heart, he knows it's so much worse for Al.

So lost in his thoughts, he doesn't realize his mother has returned to the table until the steaming bowl of stew is placed before him. "Eat as much as you want—there's plenty more in the pot," she says, smiling at both of them before moving to retrieve her own bowl.

Al makes a small, distressed sound, and as Ed looks over, his head has sunk even lower. "Mom...I'm sorry, I can't eat this."

Ed must swallow down a thick lump in his throat as their mom turns, the crease in her brow more pronounced. "Would you like something else?" It seems to take her a moment to understand his body language—which, Ed supposes, is impressive in and of itself. Not many people—"Honey, what's wrong?"

"I—it's the—the armor I'm wearing. I can't take it off."

Something like alarm spreads across her face as she rushes toward him. "What do you mean,  _ you can't take it off? _ Is it stuck? Did that transmutation—Edward, could you use alchemy to—?"

"It's—it's not  _ stuck,"  _ Al says slowly, pushing her hands away gently as they reach for his head. "It's just..."

He glances toward Ed, obviously out of ideas, so he jumps in without really thinking—"It's part of our alchemy training. Our teacher wants us to train our bodies too, so she has us wear the armor to make us stronger."

He's surprised at how level his voice is as he tells the lie...surprised that he says it at all. Every instinct in his body is screaming at him to tell the truth, because she's their  _ mother _ and she  _ always _ knows when they're lying... But a larger, more desperate part of him only asks for her happiness. If they keep Al's condition a secret, keep his automail covered, lie about everything that has happened...

It'll be false; it'll tear him apart...

But him mom, at least, will be happy.

_ (As long as she believes them, that is.) _

The alarmed look on their mom's face does not relax in the slightest; her arms are still half-outstretched as if to physically tear the armor from her son. "But—don't you get hungry—what about showers and—?"

Al's voice wavers the tiniest bit as he answers—"Teacher—she used some sort of transmutation. I don't have to worry about that..."

She hesitates a moment longer; something flickers in her eyes before she lets her arms drop. Ed experiences a brief moment of terror— _ she doesn't believe us we have to tell her the truth— _ but she only shakes her head, seating herself next to Al and patting his arm. "Well, if you ever have any problems with it, we'll have to take it off, all right? I don't care what your teacher says—if you're not happy, it's not worth it."

Al inclines his head in a smile and whispers, "Thanks, Mom."

She smiles at them both, beautiful and radiant and  _ perfect _ , and as Ed slowly begins to eat his stew, he is so caught up in his mother's presence that he misses the way worry flashes through her eyes.

* * *

The two of them are alone for a moment while their mother is in the washroom. Suddenly, there is a pause in the systematic clanking of Al's shoulders as he dries dishes, and Ed knows the question he's going to ask even before he voices it—"Brother...are we really going to be able to do this? Keep everything from her? Maybe if we tell her, she can stop everything and..."

He trails off, and after a moment he resumes drying the lunch bowls. Ed knows Al could be right...knows he's  _ probably _ right. Maybe, if she goes to a doctor sooner, she'd be fine—maybe— 

But he doesn't think he could bear telling her everything...not right now. Not when those wounds (ever-present but on the way to healing) have been ripped open so suddenly and violently.

He doesn't answer, but Al seems to understand. They finish cleaning the kitchen in silence.

* * *

As evening turns to night, Ed sees the way their mother casts nervous glances at Al every so often, as if expecting him to keel over or explode or simply cease to exist. The three of them don't talk much as they help with the laundry, the sweeping, setting up makeshift beds for the two of them...

(Al won't be using his—not really—but they need to keep pretending, at least for a while.)

Eventually, they're set up in their old room (Ed and Al easily pushed their old cots to the wall), with old mattresses from storage and pillows and blankets. Ed climbs in slowly, careful to leave on socks and gloves, as their mother looks on, a small smile on her face.

"Will you two be all right?" she asks, kneeling down and putting a gentle hand on Al's helmet. She smiles at him for a moment before kissing his forehead. "Let me know if you need anything, okay? I'm right across the hall."

Al makes a noise of agreement, unable to articulate much else. She pulls him into a hug for several seconds before shifting over to Ed, embracing him as well. "You two are so grown up! You'll have to tell me everything that's happened tomorrow, all right?"

Ed can't find it in him to answer, so he only returns the hug gently. She doesn't seem to find this strange, though, for she strokes his hair for a moment before standing up. "I love you guys," she says, and Ed almost forgets to answer; he's too wrapped up in what cannot possibly be real.

"Love you too, Mom."

(As she closes the door quietly behind her, Ed convinces himself that his eyes are stinging only because he's so horribly tired.)

(He won't let himself cry—Al  _ can't _ cry, and it's  _ his _ fault, so he isn't allowed that luxury.)

"Brother?" Al's voice is barely audible, thick with some emotion he can't properly express. "Is it—is everything the same?"

Ed has to choke down the lump in his throat before he can answer.

.

.

.

.

_ f a s t f o r w a r d _

.

.

.

.

These people, with their blue uniforms and heavy boots and stern gazes, are scaring Ed more than he wants to admit. Roy, at least, is an alchemist—maybe he isn't so bad. But the woman had looked scary, and the four other men on the side...

(He's only ever heard about guns, seen pictures in books, but Ed is pretty sure the blond man has one in his hand.)

And this new information—that they are in the future—he can barely understand it. The circle they had found—they wanted to  _ see _ the future, not  _ go _ to it—

"Do you know how to get back?" Al asks in a very small voice. He almost shushes his little brother, because even if they know this man's name they don't really know anything about him—and Mom always says not to trust strangers. But he realizes quickly that these adults are much bigger than either of them, and they look important. Maybe they  _ could _ help them.

(And if they're  _ not _ nice people, if they try to hurt Al, well...Ed will never let that happen.)

"I'm not sure," Roy says, and his brow has lines in it like Mom's so often does when she thinks she's alone. "Could you draw out your circle for me? I've never heard of a transmutation doing this before."

"It's our dad's," Ed says proudly as he accepts the paper and pen offered to him by the grey-haired man. Of  _ course  _ they remember the circle—they pored over it for weeks, making sure it would work, even though he trusts his father's work unconditionally. Because even if he has to go away for a while, Mom says he'll come back...and Mom is always right.

"That would explain it," Roy mutters, watching with interest as Ed starts to draw the circle. His lines aren't totally straight; his circles aren't perfectly round; Al has always been better at that, with his slow, steady hand. But the geometry is  _ there, _ along with the complicated runes they've spent hours practicing, and even if it's sketchy, the array is correct.

He passes the paper to Al for him to double-check, wondering what Roy means by his comment earlier. Sure, their dad's name is on a lot of the books they've studied, and Mom always says that he's an amazing alchemist... But Central is very far away from home, isn't it? Is he really  _ that  _ famous?

Roy's eyebrows arch high on his forehead as Al nods and passes the paper to him. "You guys were able to activate this array? You're—what—four and five?"

Ed feels his chest puff out. "Mom says we're real smart 'cause we can do stuff like this. That's why we were gonna do this for her!"

He trails off, though, as the reality of their problem truly hits home. They're stranded  _ in the future, _ with strange people in a strange place. All he wants, right now, is his mother's warm arms surrounding him, promising him that everything will be all right.

"Can we go home?" he asks Roy after a moment, apparently breaking him out of deep thought. The man is silent for a moment, sharing a glance with one of the men standing to the side.

"Fuery, see if you can find Hughes and Armstrong..."

Ed is ready to yell indignantly, to tell Roy not to ignore them—but as soon as the other man has left, Roy turns back to them with a very serious expression on his face.

"I'm not sure how to send you back right now. Armstrong is an alchemist, too, and hopefully he'll be able to help me figure out how to reverse this. In the meantime, my friend Hughes will have to take you in."

Ed huffs impatiently. "I  _ mean, _ why can't we go to the Resembool from  _ now? _ With Mom and Dad and—and _ old _ Winry and Granny and Aunt and Uncle Rockbell!"

The thought of Winry being old—being one of the teenagers that tower over them in the schoolyard—is a little  _ too _ weird for Ed, but it's better than staying with these people they don't know. This  _ Hughes _ person—whoever he is—even if he and Roy are friends, they don't know him at all. Ed wants to stay with someone familiar.

Roy and the woman look at each other for several seconds, but Ed can't imagine why. Central is far away, but there are trains that they could use to get home. It wouldn't be a big deal, right?

"There...isn't a train from here to Resembool for a few weeks," the woman finally says, looking between Ed and Al with a very serious expression. "Your older selves had tickets to get back home, but that train leaves in five minutes, and  _ you _ don't have tickets."

"But..." Al trails off, his voice wavering as he scoots forward to sit next to Ed. "Isn't there a way to—Mom..."

His eyes are getting wet very quickly, and Ed immediately puts his arm around Al's shoulders. Usually, he'd tell him not to cry, because he's a  _ boy  _ and boys don't cry...but he's not too happy with this situation either. If they  _ can't _ get home—how can they—

"Your friend Winry is down in Rush Valley for her studies," Roy says slowly, rubbing the top of his nose the way Uncle Rockbell does. "I could try to call her...maybe she could come and stay with you at Hughes', if she isn't too busy."

"She's where?" Al sounds both confused and alarmed. Ed isn't much better—if they are—ten years in the future—Winry is only fifteen—why is she not at home?

"It's a city with a huge market for automail. As far as I know, she's apprenticing under an engineer there."

It strikes Ed as very odd that Roy knows that—(why were our older selves here in the first place how do they know us)—but before he can ask, the door opens to let in the man from before—Fuery—along with two men in that same blue uniform. It's strange; Ed has never seen anything like it.  _ Where are we? _

He doesn't get a chance to ask this, either, because the tall man wearing glasses whistles and squats down next to Roy. "Damn, you weren't kidding, were you? Ed and Al, right?"

"How do you guys know us? Where are we?" Ed's voice is as loud as he can make it, as terrifying and protective as possible. He knows these people won't hurt him, but he's more than a little terrified at this point.  _ Why _ aren't they in Resembool? Why are their older selves with all these strange people? Where is their mother and  _ why can't they go home? _

"You guys—well, your older selves—were here for a—a field trip," Glasses-man says, and something in his eyes begs Ed to calm down. He's not quite the same as Roy and the others; he seems kinder, almost like— 

_ Like Dad. _

"And you two stayed to talk to Roy about his alchemy, since you're trying to learn everything you can, and then—well—apparently  _ you  _ showed up."

Roy nods through this explanation, so Ed takes it as the truth. But—"Where is  _ here? _ Why did school take us to Central?" He's never heard of the older kids coming so far away.

"It's—Central Command. The military, the people who run the country. Roy and Armstrong are State Alchemists," the man says, smiling gently. Roy digs in his pocket for a moment before producing a big silver thing on a chain, a larger version of what Dad wears... _ a watch. _

Ed isn't sure what a State Alchemist is, exactly—he hasn't read much at all about Amestris itself—but this man seems nice, so he decides to trust him. "Are you—are you Hughes? Or Armstrong?"

The man laughs, and the kindness in his green eyes reminds Ed suddenly of his mother. "I'm Hughes. Armstrong is the big blond guy behind me."

Ed lets his gaze travel upward, wondering how he could have missed the huge man standing by the door. He's bigger than Uncle Rockbell, bigger than even  _ Dad... _ and, to Ed's alarm, he is crying.

"Uh, Mister Armstrong, are you okay?" Al asks, his eyebrows scrunched in worry. "Why are you crying?"

A few of the men on the side laugh, but Armstrong only sniffles once before declaring—"It's nothing, dear Alphonse Elric. It is just, to see you in this way..."

_ "Thank _ you, Major," the woman says abruptly, standing up and taking his arm, leading him out of the room in a matter of seconds.

Ed and Al both stare after them worriedly for a moment before Hughes catches their attention again. His eyes linger on Al for a moment as well before he sighs. "Yes, well, you've grown up quite a bit by the time you come here. The Major is pretty...sentimental, you might say."

Ed knows he's heard that word before—some joke Uncle Rockbell made when Granny started hanging up photos. He can't remember exactly what it means, but he supposes it doesn't really matter.

They can trust these people—that much he's decided. Roy is already heading toward a telephone on a nearby desk, promising to ask Winry to come as soon as possible, and everyone else is straightening up.

(The men to the side are staring at Al as if seeing him in a whole new light. Have they been doing that this entire time? Ed doesn't know, and it's freaking him out.)

"I can drive you to my house now, if you don't mind. My wife and daughter are there," Hughes is saying, standing up and offering Ed a hand. "Elysia's just a bit younger than you guys—you'll get along great!"

He continues on as they leave the office about this  _ Elysia _ girl and his wife,  _ Gracia, _ but Ed is barely listening. Al is grasping his hand tightly as they walk through this enormous building; people stare, ask Hughes questions, but he always writes the two of them off as a couple of Elysia's playmates he had to pick up.

_ Why _ is he lying? Ed knows that lying is a bad thing to do. Was what they did also bad? Is that why Hughes has to lie about it? Will they get in trouble? Maybe they'll  _ never  _ get to go home and never see Mom again and...

People are staring at him while the three of them finally break free of the building...they're taking in his eyes and hair and everything about him. Some have a spark of recognition in their gazes; others only look confused; but every one of them makes Ed like this place less and less.

The whispers follow him all the way to Hughes' home.


	3. remembrance

As hard as she might try, Trisha knows she won't be getting any sleep tonight.

She doesn't know whether to be amazed or terrified, the way her boys have grown up. Edward looks so much like his father, with his long hair and piercing golden eyes. (But, somehow, he seems so much older than fifteen.)

And Alphonse. Her sweet, darling Alphonse with the wide eyes and the smile the lights up the room... _ why _ can he not take the armor off? Perhaps she is being selfish; perhaps it really will help them with their alchemy—but she wants to see her baby boy's face behind all that steel.

There are so many questions running through her mind, so many mysteries and worries and fears. She knows sleep will elude her until she has the answers she needs. There is something in Ed's eyes, in Al's body language, that she can't quite read; it scares her more than she wants to admit. But they both seem so happy to see her, to just be in her presence; she doesn't want to ruin that now. (Even if she wonders why, because no teenager she's ever met has been so attached to his mother.)

She's jarred out of her thoughts abruptly by a scream from across the hall. It's Edward's voice, she knows; she's out of bed and into their room before she can even think. Is something attacking him? Is he hurt? What—?

She can see him, now, thrashing in his sheets, his eyes shut tight and face contorted. Al is already by his side, half-blocking his brother from Trisha's view and shaking him, trying to wake him up.

"Brother!  _ Brother! _ It's only a nightmare, it's over, nothing's wrong, you're fine—"

Trisha steps forward quickly, intending to help him, to offer what comfort she can once Edward wakes up.  _ (What is he dreaming about? What has terrified her strong little boy so badly?)  _ She makes to kneel down opposite Al, but he looks up at her, his eyes  _ (eyes?) _ glowing eerily in the dark.

"No, you need to stay back—his nightmares, they're—"

She doesn't understand, but she's not about to leave when her son is in such pain. "What's wrong with him?" she asks, her voice tense, as she runs her fingers through his hair, trying to calm him down. He is still definitely asleep, with his teeth clenched in pain and sweat rolling down his forehead...

"He—he gets nightmares," Al says, and his voice is carefully controlled. "Sometimes, he...he'll be okay, I promise, just...I'm the only one who can calm him down."

_ "What?" _ Surely, her sons are close—she's seen the way they share glances when they think she isn't looking, the way they seem to know exactly what the other is thinking. But—"I'm his  _ mother _ —can't I—"

She feels a sudden, horrible fear that maybe she  _ isn't _ a good mother. Maybe she screws up, at some point in the future—maybe they hate her, ran away to live with this "Teacher" just to get away—

The possibilities are terrible and endless, and she almost physically buckles under their weight.  _ What if I've failed my precious little boys? _

Al recoils as if burned, and his voice is full of pain as he replies—"It's—it's not that—it's just—you might make it worse, because—"

Ed's eyes snap open, and he looks wild and disoriented for a moment as his gaze spins around the room. He pauses briefly to stare at Al, as if making sure he is still there, before he finally finds Trisha.

His eyes grow impossibly wider, and he tries to move backwards, scrambling away from her on unsteady limbs. The horror is so clear on his face, in his quick, short breaths and his shaking hands, that Trisha can hardly breathe.

He's terrified. Of  _ her. _ What could she have possibly done to him to warrant this reaction?

"Brother!  _ Brother!  _ Listen to me!" Al physically turns Ed's head toward him, though Trisha can see Edward's face as it stays frozen in fear, can hear Alphonse's armor clanking as they both tremble. "Remember? This is Mom— _ really  _ Mom—it's 1904—nothing's happened—"

Something like recognition flashes across Edward's face, and he relaxes, though he is still shaking violently. (Trisha thinks she hears a strange sort of clicking noise...but she has no idea where it could be coming from.) "Right..." The pain on his face has not diminished in the slightest, though, and he doesn't seem to be able to meet Trisha's eyes as he mumbles, "Sorry Mom..."

"There's nothing to be sorry for," she says immediately, hesitating for a moment before pulling him into a hug. Whatever she might have done in their past—her future—she has no idea what it could be...but she will try to make up for it now. She  _ must  _ make up for whatever horrors she has incurred upon her boys. "Just remember, it's only a nightmare. Al and I are here, we won't let anything happen to you."

Ed makes an odd sort of choking sound, as if he tries to swallow back a sob and only partially succeeds. But, to Trisha's great relief, he returns the embrace, his arms gingerly surrounding her as he buries his face in her chest. "Thanks...Mom, Al..."

"You're very welcome," she says, and Al makes a small noise of agreement next to her. Even if she doesn't know what Edward was dreaming about, even if he's still shaking uncontrollably in her embrace, even if she can tell that something is horribly wrong...

They're a family, and they can get through this together. (It's her job as a mother to protect her sons with everything she has, and she is totally prepared to do so if need be.)

She doesn't know how long they are there like this, with Edward lying, now, in her lap and Alphonse sitting inches away, but eventually, Ed's breathing slows to a steady pace, and his lips curl up into a small smile as he falls asleep. Alphonse has not moved from his silent vigil next to her, but Trisha knows that he is awake. "You should get some sleep, too," she says to him softly, laying Edward's head back on his pillow before turning. "It's been a long day—you must be exhausted."

Al is silent for a moment before he replies, his voice barely audible—"I'm—I'm not really tired, actually."

There is something  _ off _ about his tone, she thinks. But it's late, and she's not thinking straight, and he's probably  _ (hopefully) _ just shaken up by his brother's nightmares. "I don't think I'll be sleeping, either." She stands up, offering Al her hand with a smile. "How about we go out to the kitchen? I haven't had a chance to talk to you yet—you've grown up so much, you know?"

Al is still and silent for a moment; the eerie red orbs that seem to represent his eyes stare up at her. (She doesn't want to admit it, but she has to force herself not to look away. Somehow, when she looks into those eye sockets, it doesn't seem like she's really talking to her son.) Eventually, he takes her hand, heaving himself up mostly under his own power, and follows her out the door.

He is silent as they make their way downstairs to the kitchen, as Trisha goes to make two cups of tea before remembering that Al can't drink it. It's cruel, really, to deprive a fourteen-year-old boy of eating. Even if he won't starve, just tasting the food has merit in and of itself.

(If she ever gets a hold of this Teacher woman, she'll definitely be giving her a piece of her mind.)

Al says he doesn't mind, says he's used to it, but that doesn't make it right. And it raises the question—how long has he been forced to wear it?

But Al seems upset now, is quieter than he ever was at four years old. Even though Edward can be overbearing, has always been louder than his younger brother, she doesn't think Alphonse has ever been so withdrawn. So she sits at the table, mug in hand, prepared to make sure he is all right (because, surely, it's her fault if he is not).

But he is the first to break the silence; his voice is small and frightened and full of pain. "Mom, are you all right?"

It's such a surprising question, so similar to what she was about to ask, that she's thrown off for a moment. Is  _ she _ all right?  _ Al _ is the one wearing that bulky, restricting armor;  _ Al _ is the one who must wake his brother from terrifying nightmares;  _ Al _ is the one who has seemed so horribly upset. "Of course I am, honey," she assures him, smiling and reaching across the table to pat his hand. "I was going to ask  _ you _ that—you've seemed so sad all day."

He makes a distressed sound in the back of his throat. "I, well..." he shifts uncomfortably, not quite meeting her gaze. "It's just, weird, being here."

She thinks she understands, that it's strange to be ten years in the past, where everything is surely different. But there's something in his voice, in the way he seems to shrink into his chair, that sends up warning flags in her mind.

(It's this terrible sense of foreboding she hasn't been able to shake all day. It's here—it's so close—why can't she grasp it?)

She says nothing about this, though, because Al clearly doesn't want to talk about it. And if it doesn't go away, if these mysteries continue to haunt her sons, she'll press them to let her help. But not now—not in the dead of night, when her younger son so clearly needs her comfort.

"Well, if there's ever anything wrong, you know you can tell me, all right?" she says, finding his eyes and smiling. (The anxiety the armor is causing her does not matter; all that matters right now is Alphonse's happiness.) "I don't care what it might be—we'll all work through it together."

Al doesn't seem to be able to answer immediately; he only nods slowly, his hands clenching into fists. Somehow, there is a faraway look to him, as if he's deep in thought, trying to make a decision.

She does not interrupt, and it is several seconds before he finally responds. "I saw your face, when I told you not to help wake Brother. You...you're upset with me, aren't you?" His head sinks lower, and his voice is defeated as he continues—"I was only trying—I thought it would be best."

_ What? _ That is the last thing Trisha is expecting; she works to switch gears, to readjust, while Al looks more and more dejected.

"Alphonse, I'm not angry with you at all!" she says at last, causing his head to snap up. "You know better than I do about your brother. Whatever I've done to you two, it must have been horrible. If you—"

But he interrupts with a huge  _ clang _ of his armor, looking straight at her for the first time tonight, his rigid posture screaming incredulity and horror. "What—no—that's not it at all—you're the best Mom  _ ever—" _

He looks so,  _ so _ desperate to tell her she's wrong, and she feels a huge weight fall off her shoulders, even as more questions surface. If that's not it, then  _ why? _

"He...well, Brother, his nightmares  _ are _ about you," he continues slowly, answering the unasked question as if not sure he should. "But—it's not like  _ that. _ "

He trails off for several seconds, looking to the side again. Trisha doesn't want to push him, doesn't want to hurt her little boy. But she's desperate to know what is haunting her son's worst nightmares, what had caused the unadulterated horror on Edward's face— 

"A few years ago, when we were younger, you got really sick," he says quietly, jarring Trisha out of her thoughts. "Aunt and Uncle Rockbell couldn't do anything, you almost..."

The pain is clear in his voice as he trails off, and Trisha's stomach plummets in terror. But Al continues after a moment, still staring at the ground. "But we—we were able to find Dad. One of his contacts knew where he was. And he knew Xingese—Xingese alkahestry, and it healed you. But if he hadn't come home in time..."

He does not continue, but there is no need. A sick pit of dread is forming in her gut, completely overwhelming everything else. She almost  _ died? _ Left her sons all alone, motherless and lost? If Van hadn't come home— 

"How old were you?" Her voice cracks, the anxiety and pain and horror catching up to her all at once.

"I was...I was five."

_ Five. _ That's only a year away. She can't even imagine the sons with her  _ now _ going through something like that. But even  _ younger— _ the boys who somehow sent themselves to the future...

(Worry for them is still gnawing huge holes in her mind, in her lungs and heart and gut, but she must focus on  _ these _ sons first—she must try to heal the wounds time has inflicted upon them.)

The horror in her is only compounding. How they were able to handle this, she will never know. "Mom?" Al's voice is scared, and she realizes suddenly that she has not said anything in reply. "Mom—everything—everything turned out fine. Dad stayed home, even found us a teacher. She lives in Dublith! You're fine, his alkahestry completely healed you!"

His voice cracks—likely from worry, she reflects. "That's—that's good to hear," she says after a moment, her voice scarcely louder than a whisper. "I'm just so sorry I put you through that."

"It could have been worse," he says quietly, and his face is still turned away as he continues—"It—it could have been a lot worse."

* * *

Trisha doesn't know when she fell asleep at the kitchen table, keeping Al company through her shock. But when she wakes up, she is in her bed with blankets draped carefully over her.

(She supposes that the armor  _ must _ be doing Al some good, if he was able to carry her all the way upstairs.)

She walks across the hall slowly, almost apprehensive to see her boys. She is still not over the shock of  _ I could die in a year _ and  _ what kind of mother does that to her children _ and  _ what have they gone through _ , but she knows she has to put on a strong face for her boys. Edward's expression when he awoke from that nightmare—Alphonse's body language as he told her what happened— 

Even though it's been nine years since it happened, they still feel every ounce of the pain it caused. She's not sure she can blame them.

Ed and Al are not in their room, though, and she hears noise downstairs, so she goes down to the kitchen. Ed is in the same clothes he wore yesterday—he's wearing too many layers for this summer heat... She feels a brief moment of terror for her younger set of sons— _ what if they're alone, outside, freezing in the middle of winter— _ but then she remembers that  _ these _ sons were staying with their Teacher. And if they had traded places, surely, she wouldn't let anything happen to them.

She makes her way to the stove, where a pot of sausages is boiling and eggs are sizzling in the skillet. She's surprised for a moment; neither of her sons has ever shown any interest in cooking. But, she supposes, a lot can change in ten years.

Her sons had stopped their conversation abruptly when she entered the room, and she wonders vaguely what they were talking about. Perhaps it was Edward's nightmare; perhaps it was the conversation she had with Alphonse last night. How her sons' lives were almost ruined—how their family had almost fallen apart.

She stirs the sausages without really thinking, wondering if she even  _ wants _ to know any more of what has happened. (She realizes immediately that of course she does. They're her sons. By some miracle, they have come from the future, and she finds that she wants to know everything. Even if it will hurt her...even if it isn't the ideal future. She needs to know.)

But her boys clearly don't want to talk about any of it, are still shaken up about Ed's nightmare that  _ so easily _ could have become reality. (She's jarred by it as well, but her sons have always counted on her to stay strong, and she's sure ten years have changed nothing.) So, she decides to avoid the subject for now, until they’ve all calmed down some. She fills two plates with food (there should be three) and brings them to the table, sitting down next to Ed and smiling at them both. "Thank you for starting breakfast," she says as Edward smiles back a bit tiredly and begins to eat.

(He throws glances toward his little brother every so often; his eyes are full of something Trisha can only read as pain. And she realizes, suddenly, how terrible she feels for eating in front of her son. He's been deprived of this luxury, this thing that everyone takes for granted.)

Surprisingly, Alphonse is the one who answers her compliment, ducking his head in embarrassment—"It wasn't a problem. Since you stayed up with me, I figured I could do this much."

Ed reaches over, punching the breastplate of the armor. "And your cooking's great as always. You guys always make the best food."

Al makes a noise, somewhere between a thanks and an affirmation and a sob, and Trisha knows that  _ something _ is going on here, something she can't understand yet. 

She doesn't know, and she realizes that without this knowledge, she may go mad.

* * *

The day is long and quiet, and she thinks her sons may be in better spirits than they have been since they arrived. She wants to bring up the circle their younger selves had used, the circle still inscribed on the floor of their father's study, because surely they belong in the future, while those in the future belong here, with her. Afer all, if they are really being tutored in alchemy, they will probably have no trouble deciphering it and finding their way back home.

But she doesn't ask, doesn't mention how they arrived at all, because there's something in the way they look at her that says they don't want to leave. She can't imagine why; surely, they have friends with whom they belong at home? Surely, their Teacher is worried about them; surely, they would be happier in their own time.

(She knows she worries about her four- and five-year-old sons without pause. Even if they have assured her _ — _ rather indirectly _ — _ that they are safe...she wants them home, if only to hold them in her arms once again.)

_ Why _ have they not mentioned returning to 1914 even once? Why have they not shared more information of what has happened in their lives? Have they started working part-time, like so many do in East City, where they fix things with alchemy for a small fee? Has Winry followed in her grandmother's footsteps and become an engineer, as she has so often mentioned? What has become of the country as a whole?

She has so many questions, but she thinks she doesn’t have the heart to ask them right now. The two of them still treat her like an angel, like something fragile, like something that will break should they say the wrong thing. Maybe this is the shock of being in the past. Maybe this is something else.

She will ask them later.

* * *

(The overcast skies that have been threatening them all day burst open, and the summer storms begin.)

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_ f a s t f o r w a r d _

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Nobody seems willing to even  _ breathe _ in the seconds after Maes leaves with the Elrics.

_ The Elrics. _ To Roy, that phrase conjures up images of an offensively red coat, of the constant clanking of metal parts as either of them moves, of the intimidating armor that houses the soul of the kindest boy he's ever known.

He's never thought of them as children—not really. It's as if Al has always been in the armor, as if Ed has always had two automail limbs... And he knows, intellectually, that their father left when they were two and three—their mother died when they were five and six—they didn't attempt that damned transmutation until five years after  _ that _ —but it still...

Seeing these boys so young, so small and scared and  _ innocent  _ is a little too strange for him right now.

He's terrible at dealing with children; he has no idea what to do with them. He's sure his team is not much better, but they have to do their best. They are children—innocent—they don't know that their mother is dead, that their father never came home, that they have lost nearly everything.

_ They can't find out. _ Roy knows such things tear apart  _ their _ Elrics without pause, and for such small boys— 

_ They cannot know what's happened. _

He finally finds the file he is looking for: the Elrics' emergency contacts. There are a total of two numbers on the list—the Rockbells and the Curtises. He wonders briefly if he should call their teacher—maybe she could help them with the circle. If she was able to keep up with those boys—actually  _ teach _ them things—surely, she is one of the best alchemists in the country.

But then he remembers the horror stories the Elrics have told them on occasion, remembers everything he's heard about Izumi Curtis...and thinks that he would like to keep his manly bits exactly where they are,  _ thank you very much. _

So he dials Pinako Rockbell instead, waiting impatiently for her to pick up. He's already running through the possibilities—the worst things that could happen in this situation. If he and Armstrong can't figure out the circle, he's decided, they'll have to call Mrs. Curtis. Surely, between the three of them, they'll be able to resolve it.

(He doubts  _ their _ Elrics, on the other end, will be doing much.)

This thought stops him short.  _ Their  _ Elrics. In the past. The younger ones replaced them, fell in the same place  _ they _ had been— 

And five-year-old Ed had said they were at home with their mother.

He is jerked from this horrifying train of thought by a voice on the other end of the line. "Rockbell Automail—Pinako speaking."

"Mrs. Rockbell, this is Colonel Mustang," he says quickly, and he's pleased to hear that his voice is relatively steady. "Does Winry have a telephone number that I can reach her at?"

There is a slight pause on the other end. "Did Ed break his automail  _ again? _ Didn't he just get it fixed last week?"

"No, Ma'am, it's not that. We have a bit of a situation, here, and we need your granddaughter to—"

"Are they all right?" Her tone is suddenly sharp, almost threatening as she immediately switches gears. "Are they hurt?"

"In all honesty, we don't know," he says, and he hears his voice betray a bit of anxiety as he continues quickly. "Have you ever heard of time travel with alchemy?"

Silence. "What are you implying, Mustang?"

"I'm implying that we have a pair of Elrics on our hands who are barely into school," he says, his tone turning hard with worry, "and who think their mother is still living in Resembool."

The pause is much longer this time. "And  _ our _ Elrics are gone?"

"Yes," he says, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Back in 1904, most likely. With their mother."

"What did you tell them?" she asks after a moment, her voice heavy. 

"Just that they can't go to Resembool because there aren't any trains this week. But that won't last forever..."

"I'll call Winry," she says immediately, though her voice is carefully controlled. "Tell her to take the next train to Central. Where are they staying?"

"My friend Hughes is taking them in, Winry stayed with him last time she was here. He and Gracia are smart—they won't tell them anything."

"Right. Make sure there's someone at the station to pick her up." She pauses for a moment, and Roy wonders whether she's going to hang up, but then she says, much more solemn—"I know you never knew them this young, but trust me when I say not to underestimate those boys. It won't even be a year before Ed starts coming up with theories for human transmutation...and Al is just as brilliant as he is." She sighs. "Don't do anything stupid, all right, Mustang?"

"I will do everything in my power, Ma'am," he says, and he means every word. "We're already working on reversing the circle. Since  _ our _ Ed and Al probably won't be doing much on their end..."

The silence is heavy, full of anxiety and pain and other terrible emotions that have never been named. "Get them home, boy," she says, and though her tone is authoritative, there is a plea, a desperation behind her words. She hangs up before he can reply.

* * *

The office is quieter than it has been in years. The image of those two little boys is seared into Roy's mind; Ed's eyes were scared yet defensive, prepared to protect his little brother no matter what. That, he supposes, hasn't changed...but everything else is entirely different. His hair is short; his eyes are bright, but it is with the hope of youth rather than that of desperation.

But as incredible as five-year-old Edward is, his younger brother is even more of a miracle. While Roy realizes, intellectually, that Alphonse is the younger brother, taller than Edward even before he was confined to the armor—even though he's realized that Al has the same coloring as Edward but their mother's features...

Knowing and  _ knowing  _ are two entirely different things, and the chasm that separates them is miles wide. (He  _ knows, _ now, and his world is falling to pieces.)

Alphonse can't eat; he can't sleep; he can't smell or feel or taste or do anything others take for granted. And, surely, that is horrible—but somehow, this realization is so much worse...

Because he's only a child, in the end. He was barely ten years old when his life was ripped away for good—that round face and the big, golden eyes and the small hands grasping for his brother's comfort are things of the past now. Surely, Roy has realized the Elrics' young age before this—he knows that it is a horrible tragedy to have children barely into puberty joining the military. But after seeing that  _ (adorable) _ face, eyes welling up with tears, he's seeing Alphonse Elric in a whole new way. It's the boy he really is; it's the way he's supposed to be.

He truly understands, now, why Edward is so desperate to return his brother to his body. To the rest of them, Alphonse has always been the towering suit of armor. His eyes have always been red bulbs of soulfire; his hair has always been that stretch of thread that falls far down his back. But now…

Now.

The two images of Alphonse—the so-familiar armor and the four-year-old boy desperate for his mother—are warring in his mind, fighting for dominance, because one is the Alphonse that he's always known and the other is the Alphonse that he  _ should. _

He feels a headache coming on from all of this, because it's complex and it's personal and it's  _ essential _ that he gets it right. This isn't like war; this isn't even like alchemy; it's a person  _ (he's just a boy) _ who deserves so much more than he's been dealt. Roy needs to help him as best he can.

(When he first met the Elrics, he was only really looking out for himself. But as the years have gone by...)

He thinks that he would do anything— _ give up _ anything—if only he could make their lives right again.

The office is still and silent; everyone is lost in their own thoughts, trying to wrap their minds around all of this. It is so foreign, but they should have known it all along; it is so terrifying, but  _ they _ aren't the ones who must live with it...

Or carry the guilt.

Roy wonders suddenly whether this is how Edward feels every second of his life, and then wonders how in Hell he has kept himself from going mad.

* * *

That night, Roy's nightmares are not of Ishval and gunfire and innocents charred beyond recognition.

They are of Resembool and faraway screams and burning, soulfire eyes.


	4. retrospection

_ r e w i n d _

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Ed isn't sure how much longer he can take this.

This miracle is Heaven and Hell and forgiveness and condemnation all at the same time. Seeing his mother, whole and alive and happy and  _ here _ —it's more than he has dreamed of in  _ years. _ He can still barely believe this is happening. But Al can’t experience this—not really. 

(He'll never forgive himself for what he did to his brother. They've gotten what they had yearned for so terribly, but it's sick and twisted, and Al can't truly live what they have received.)

And he knows,  _ he knows, _ that they can't stay here forever. Mom would wonder, would ask why they won't go back. As far as she knows, they have family and friends and a worried Teacher searching for them back home. And while, surely, Mustang and the others are in an uproar, have probably called the Rockbells and are trying to find a way to get them back...

They're not his mother, and he doesn't think he can bear losing her for a third time.

He knows, too, that their younger selves deserve to be  _ here _ —they deserve to be at home with their mother in the precious little time they have left. He knows that the era they have just entered will ruin them beyond repair if they stay too long.

(It'll ruin them, just like it's ruined him.)

But Mustang isn't stupid; Ed knows he won't tell them the gruesome details of their future. Surely, he'll keep them safe from the horrors lurking around every corner, buy him and Al some desperate time with their mother.

(But he also knows himself, so he knows that five-year-old Ed won't stop digging until he finds the truth.)

(Some might call that determination. Edward calls it suicide.)

And, on some distant level, he realizes that Al is probably right. (Of course, when is his little brother ever wrong?) Telling their mom what has happened, telling her what they did and  _ how badly he messed up— _ that may stop it from happening at all. 

He hasn't been able to bring himself to enter the study since they arrived, though. He knows it's irrational—knows they need to understand the circle and Hohenheim's notes to reverse it  _ (eventually) _ . But that's where everything began, and that's where it all ended. That's where his life ended and Hell began and all hope was lost...

He doesn't think he'd be able to handle that. Not yet.

* * *

He's been achy all day, ever since he woke up from that hideous nightmare. (It hasn't been that bad in  _ months. _ ) He still barely keeps from flinching when he sees his mother, half-expects her to turn into that grotesque monster  _ that couldn't possibly have been her. _

He knows, intellectually, that  _ this is real _ and  _ Mom is alive _ and  _ he should be happy _ , but something is holding him back. He's not entirely sure what it is. Maybe it's the paranoia instilled in him by the military. Maybe it's the cynicism, courtesy of a lifetime of failure and disappointment. Maybe...

He doesn't have time to think on this anymore, though, because a sudden, stabbing pain in his right shoulder brings him back to reality with a gasp.

(His living room. The living room in the house he burnt down almost four years ago. Through the haze of pain, he almost forgets what he's doing here.)

"Edward? Are you all right?" There—that's her voice, so beautiful and perfect and yet marred by worry. He must have some sign of discomfort on his face. He wouldn't be surprised. (Did he cry out? He doesn't remember.)

"Fine—just—just a cramp," he says, and his voice is as level as he can make it as he smiles and reaches up to gently massage his right shoulder.

(It doesn't help.)

"Are you sure?" She isn't buying his act; the alarm on her face is only growing as she stands, taking a step toward him. "Sweetie, you're pale as a sheet—"

Clanking of metal. Al. Good. Maybe he can talk their way out of this, because the pain (ripping, tearing,  _ screaming _ ) is increasing steadily, is making it near-impossible for him to convince his mother that he is, in fact, fine.

(He had almost forgotten, really, how caring she was, how kind and concerned and self-sacrificing. It's reassuring, but it's also alarming, because he knows exactly what this pain is and  _ she can't know, _ not now.)

"Brother?" Al's voice is cautious, and Ed can tell by his tone that he knows what this is, too. (There's nothing he can do to alleviate the pain, and Ed knows his brother probably hates this even more than he does.) "Do we need to call Granny?"

He can only grunt, because the pain has spread down the arm  _ that he doesn't have _ and it's as if he's being ripped apart all over again. Muscle from bone from ligament from skin being pulled pulled  _ pulled _ until he just can't take it anymore, and there is blood everywhere and  _ he is going to die _ —

Just like  _ that, _ the pain is starting in his left leg as well, as if to spite him ( _ you gave me up for a sick imitation and now you have what you want for no price at all) _ and even though he knows this isn't real— _ can't _ be real—and the floor beneath him is clear of blood...it doesn't make it hurt any less.

He's nearly doubled over in his chair, now, and his flesh hand grips his thigh port in a futile gesture of comfort. His teeth are gritted and his eyes are shut tight, because he can't scream and he can't cry because that  _ just isn't allowed, _ not when his little brother who  _ can't _ do these things is inches from his face, begging him to focus, and his terrified and confused mother is barely behind.

He has to be the man of the family. He has been ever since Hohenheim left, and he won't stop just because of a little pain.

He just can't— 

He's unable to articulate any of these things, though, because he's sure that if he opens his mouth, only a tortured scream will come out. So he only curls in on himself, closer, tighter, and trusts Al to understand that  _ it hurts so goddamn much. _

"Mom, call the Rockbells," Al says, as if from far away, and though his voice wavers Ed can clearly hear the command behind it. "Granny and—and Auntie and Uncle Rockbell, if they can leave Winry."

"It's pouring rain," she says, her voice unsteady and unsure and terrified. "Can we do anything here? I don't want to make them—"

"Tell Granny—tell her to bring painkillers," Al plows on, and desperation is clear in his voice now. " _ Please, _ Mom, we really need this. It—it happens, sometimes...and it won't go away on its own."

If Ed were lucid, were thinking straight and still desperate to keep the truth from their mother, he would think that Al gave rather too much away. But right now, all he cares about is the fact that his mother's quick footsteps are retreating, heading for the phone in the kitchen, and he hopes that it doesn't take Granny too long to get here.

He's been through this before. Hell, he's been through  _ worse. _ But he doesn't think it's been this bad in  _ years, _ since before he had his automail attached.

Al's quiet, soothing voice cuts through his mangled thoughts, and Ed is fairly certain he feels his brother's large hands massaging his abandoned shoulder port. "Listen to me, Brother—none of it is real, okay? It isn't happening—you're fine, it's just the storms and the—the stress—"

_ Of course, _ that's what's causing it. He can hear the heavy rain falling on the roof, can feel the ground shake as thunder rolls through Resembool. And if this situation isn't stressful, he doesn't know what is.

He nods shakily, and manages a strangled "I know," but his acknowledgement doesn't make the pain lessen, and neither do his brother's words. (He's not sure how long this will last, how long he will feel like his missing limbs are being flayed apart cell by cell, but he knows he has to bear it. He can't let Al and Mom down like this.)

Somewhere, he hears his mother talking, and the blessed pressure on his shoulder is released as Al turns, trying to keep her from stepping closer, from finding out what is wrong with him. She  _ can't _ know, and he knows this, but the hysterical note rising quickly in her tone is somehow more painful than the agony assaulting his body. He has to calm her down.

"Mom," he says, and though his voice is barely a whisper and the weather makes it nearly impossible to hear, both she and Al turn, staring into his watering eyes and begging for answers. "'Mfine—really—"

It's such a blatant lie that he flinches upon its completion, because no facet of this situation could be considered even  _ remotely _ fine. But he hopes desperately that she believes him, at least to some extent. He hopes it alleviates her worry, because he  _ cannot stand _ seeing her like this.

(She's upset and horrified and confused, and he has only himself to blame. He has to wipe his own ass, make up for his own mistakes and fix whatever wrongs he has committed.)

"Edward—" she begins, a little harshly—"please, don't lie—just tell me what's wrong so I can help—"

He shakes his head immediately, on impulse, and bites back a scream as another surge of agony rolls through. He knows she's anxious and confused and desperate to make this right for him; he knows this because he's inherited those same qualities himself. But he can't afford to lose this battle, not when so much  _ (her happiness) _ is at stake—

The front door slams open, letting in torrential rain for a few seconds as two figures rush in. One, clearly, is Granny, and he is fairly certain that the other is Auntie Rockbell, even if his vision is blurring too much for him to tell. They're tracking mud all over the floor, but nobody seems to notice as the two newcomers arrive at his side, tilting his head with soft fingers so he can look at them better.

"Where does it hurt, Edward?" Yes, that's Auntie Rockbell—he had almost forgotten what her voice sounds like, it's been so long—

But before he can reply, before he can even  _ think _ of composing himself enough to open his mouth, Granny says, "Oh, I've got a pretty good idea. Alphonse, go make your mother a cup of tea in the kitchen." The message is clear:  _ keep her out of here. _ And Ed understands that, somehow, she  _ knows _ —she knows exactly what is ailing him without being told, and he only has a moment to wonder how before two outraged voices split the air—

"He's my  _ son, _ Pinako, I can't just—"

"I can't leave Brother like this when he—"

"I swear he will be fine," Granny says loudly over their objections. "I know what this is and how to fix it. We just need some space, all right?"

There is no room for argument in her tone, and after a moment Ed hears footsteps retreating toward the kitchen. Granny waits before the door is securely latched before she moves toward him; he is curled up, now, clutching his thigh with his left hand while his right arm lays uselessly across his lap. If this doesn't fade  _ soon... _

(He doesn't remember even his earliest episodes being this long and painful. But he has no time to think on that now.)

"I need to see your port, Edward," Granny says, and her voice is much kinder than it was mere seconds ago. She hands him two large pills—the strongest painkillers she has, Ed knows—and he swallows them dry, desperate for some sort of comfort. "It's just the barometric pressure changes—phantom pains aren't uncommon. This'll fade eventually.”

Auntie Rockbell makes a noise of surprise, but Granny ignores her, reaching gently for his coat. "I'm just going to take your jacket off, all right?"

He barely has the presence of mind to nod as he releases his thigh long enough for her to slip his layers off. Auntie Rockbell gasps as his arm is exposed, but he does not care right now. She isn't Mom, and even if she's as good as family to him...it's not the same—not really.

Granny is silent for too long, though, and he struggles to focus on her face, to gauge her reaction. Surely, she knew about his automail? With her talk of getting his mother away and phantom pains, why is she so surprised?

But she finally breaks the silence, her voice almost threatening. "Edward, how long ago did we make you this arm?"

_ Oh. _ Through the blurry haze of delirious pain, Ed finally realizes what she is focusing on—the scarring around his port. Surely, she was expecting new scar tissue, perhaps even bandages, fresh from surgery when he was pulled through time. But instead, he knows, she is seeing grafting scars years old, already faded to a pale pink instead of a deep and angry red.

He supposes he'll have to give it up...to Granny and Auntie, at least.

"Four years," he's able to gasp out, returning his futile attempts to his left thigh. "And my leg—"

It seems to take them a moment to understand, but when they do, Granny swears loudly, and Auntie Rockbell barely stifles a scream. "You have a lot of explaining to do, boy," she says, unceremoniously pulling off his boots and pants. "Once this dies down—"

"Just— _ please,  _ don't tell Mom."

It's the only thing he can think of to say. He'll tell them anything— _ everything _ —as long as they keep it from his mother. He knows that he can't hide this from her forever—especially after this episode—but if she has to hear it...he wants it to be from him and Al, not secondhand from the Rockbells.

"Not my place to tell your mother anything," Granny says rather gruffly, and she's rubbing some sort of salve around his thigh port, massaging it in. He hopes desperately that it starts working  _ soon. _ "But you can't keep this from her forever. Whatever accident did this, maybe she can stop it from happening at all."

There is another shock of pain through the nerves in his thigh before the agony begins to—finally—fade. He's still achy and sore, still occasionally feels a stab in the leg he doesn't have...but it's so much better than what it  _ did _ feel like, and he can't help but relax as Granny moves to work on his shoulder. Auntie Rockbell takes over massaging his leg as they sit in an uncomfortable silence.

Ed knows they're waiting for him to break it, waiting for an explanation, but he isn't sure he's willing to give it while he's still shaking uncontrollably, while his right arm is still being torn off, inch by gruesome inch.

Eventually, as Granny administers the salve, the blinding pain decreases, though it still hurts a great deal and he is still trembling violently. "All right," Granny says, her tone steely. "No lies. How in  _ Hell _ did you lose two limbs when you were eleven?  _ And _ convince us all that you needed automail?"

He's unable to hide his flinch, unable to meet either set of eyes staring at him, waiting for an answer. He knows he can't talk his way out of this; both women are irrationally stubborn, just like Winry. He knows nothing but the truth (no matter how horrific) makes sense, fills the empty holes in his story.

"Ed," It's Auntie Rockbell this time, and her voice is soft, reassuring. "Whatever it is, we won't be angry with you. It was an accident, right? Nobody can blame you for that."

He shakes his head violently, though, because she is so very wrong. They think he was playing on the train tracks and didn't get off in time; they think he was playing hide-and-seek in the fields and the tractor hit him before the farmer could see... But the answer they are seeking is so much darker, so sinister, that he knows they are not prepared.

(Neither is he, but they haven't given him a choice.)

"It was a rebound," he mutters, still refusing to meet their gazes. "It went wrong...really wrong."

"What kind of alchemy could do  _ this? _ " Granny looks skeptical as she gestures to his automail. "You two know what you're doing—what could you screw up this badly?"

_ Too vague. _ It's not a lie, but they want more. It doesn't answer the questions they need to ask. But he doesn't want to tell them— _ can't _ tell them. They have no idea what will happen, that Mom will waste away with a disease they don't know how to cure.

It's not even a year away.

"Please don't tell Mom," he says again, and his voice is reduced to scarcely a whisper. Everything of his usual bravado, his cockiness and confidence and exuberance, is stripped away, now. He feels like he's five years old again, like he's done something bad and is about to be punished. Auntie Rockbell is here, and while her face is marred by worry, that kindness and determination he's always known her for are shining through. She's so much like Mom, yet they are so different... He is hurting, now, and it's not just the still-fading phantom pains. But he can't possibly get himself out of this.

"What is it, Edward?" Granny presses, and something like worry is spreading across her face as well.  _ "What did you do?" _

He takes in a deep and shaky breath, trying in vain to calm his roiling insides.  _ He has to do this. _ There's no way to lie to them, not when Auntie Rockbell's desire to help and Granny's stubborn need to know are bearing down on him. So he swallows thickly and finally manages to choke out—

"Human transmutation."

There are several beats of silence in the wake of this pronouncement, but somehow, Ed can't find it in him to look up at either of them. What they— _ he _ —did—it was horrific and wrong and unthinkable...but they were just so  _ lonely _ .

"But that's illegal!" Auntie Rockbell, surprisingly, is the first to break the silence; her voice is hoarse with disbelief. "Why would you—even  _ I  _ know not to do that!"

"And it's illegal for a reason," Granny says, and her voice is sharp. Ed remembers suddenly that she and his father were old friends...she likely knows a lot about alchemy, even if she doesn't practice it herself. "You got off lucky with two limbs, boy—why would you even  _ think— _ "

"Because we couldn't take it anymore!" His voice is loud and scared and desperate, and he sees both of them jump as he plows on. "We couldn't—she was  _ gone _ and..."

There. He's said it. Not in so many words, but there is only one  _ she _ whom they care enough about to risk their lives.

And he can see it, see the recognition flood their faces, the horror and realization and denial. (There's nothing any of them can do to save her.) "Trisha? But—" Auntie Rockbell's hands are covering her mouth; her eyes are wide and terrified and filling with tears. (He thinks suddenly that he should tell her, should stop her from going to Ishval. Seeing Auntie Rockbell cry reminds him vividly of the day they arrived at the Rockbells' to find Winry hysterical with grief, clutching a military letter in her hands. But he doubts it would change anything; Rockbell women are nothing if not stubborn, after all.) "When does she...?"

"A year. Maybe less." He can't bring himself to remember what season they have landed themselves into. But any way he looks at it, there's no time—there's never enough time to say goodbye. 

"Oh my God," Auntie Rockbell looks faint, looks like she simply  _ cannot accept _ that this will happen. (Ed remembers, vaguely, that through his own daze of grief he had seen that she was inconsolable when it happened. She and his mom had been friends for  _ years, _ after all.) "What—what was— _ how— _ "

He winces, because he remembers clearly how both Auntie and Uncle Rockbell had worked tirelessly, barely sleeping, to try and cure the epidemic that swept through Resembool—had called in favors from Central, East City—but by the time anyone had anything to help, their mother was too far gone. If he tells her now, tells her that it was illness and heartbreak that took the life of her best friend...she will drive herself mad trying to prevent it.

(And he knows that desperate madness all too well.)

He does not know how to answer, because she deserves the truth but he cannot give it to her. But Granny saves him the trouble—"Did Alphonse—you two did the transmutation together?"

He cannot breathe for a moment, because he wishes with everything he has that he could tell them that he was a  _ responsible _ older brother, that he didn't let Al participate in what was clearly a dangerous transmutation— 

But that would be a lie, and Edward can't stand those anymore.

"He—the armor," he starts around the thick lump in his throat. "I—it took everything. I could only  _ just _ keep his soul here."

(The wetness in his eyes, he tells himself, is nothing but his body playing tricks on him.  _ He cannot cry. _ )

Auntie Rockbell doesn't seem able to take it anymore. A sob escapes her lips, and she embraces Ed in a desperate hug, as if holding him tight will hold their lives together. Granny only looks on, an expression of intense, indescribable grief drowning her usually stoic face.

He would give anything not to have to tell them these things, but he can't stand dealing in lies anymore. He wants them to know the truth.

(But, somehow, he still can't find it in him to tell his mother. She is the center of their lives, the center of  _ everything... _ )

(This isn't going to be easy for any of them.)

* * *

In the kitchen, Al is making as much noise as he can, trying to drown out the conversation Ed is surely having with the Rockbells.

But he hears Auntie Rockbell sob, loud and clear, and he's sure his mother hears it as well.

.

.

.

.

_ f a s t f o r w a r d _

.

.

.

.

They're in a big house with lots of little houses inside it; Ed has never seen anything like it. Al's hand is shaking in his own as they follow Mr. Hughes to a door, and they are totally silent as he pulls out a key and lets them inside.

"Gracia! Elysia! Can you come here a minute?"

Gracia and Elysia, apparently, are his wife and daughter; both of them look very surprised as they run into the hall. "Daddy's home early!" the little girl crows, running up to him and hugging his legs. 

The woman is smiling as well, though she also looks confused. "What are you doing home, dear?"

"We had a bit of a situation at work," he says, gesturing to Ed and Al as he briefly picks up his daughter into a bear hug. (Ed wishes  _ his _ dad would come home so they could do that.) "They need someplace to stay in Central for a while, so I volunteered our house."

Al takes a step back at the sudden attention, his grip tightening on Ed's hand. Even if he says nothing, Ed can understand his feelings loud and clear— _ I don't want to stay with people I don't know! _ (And Ed doesn't want to, either, but he has to be strong for Al to show him that everything is gonna be okay.)

The lady is squatting down in front of them, now, alarmingly close, and she looks just as surprised as everyone else did. "Are you—?"

"They're two teenagers who were on a field trip, and they stayed behind to talk to Roy," Mister Hughes says quickly. "Ed and Al Elric. These little guys activated a transmutation circle in 1904, and they ended up swapping times." He shrugs with a little grin. "Or, at least, that's what I understood. You know me and alchemy."

Mrs. Hughes stares at them for a moment longer before she smiles and stands up, her eyes (green just like Mom's) soft and kind. "Well, you boys are probably hungry, huh? Elysia and I were just eating lunch. Would you like some?"

Ed nods, deciding immediately to trust this lady. After all,  _ Mister _ Hughes is nice, and if she's a Mom then she can't do anything wrong. But still... "Will Winry be here soon?"

"Hm?" Mrs. Hughes looks over to her husband, eyebrows raised. "Winry's coming up again? Doesn't she have work?"

"Ed and Al would be more comfortable with someone they know. And since there aren't any trains to Resembool, this was the next best option."

She nods, sending another glance toward the two of them before taking her daughter's hand. "Well, she's welcome whenever she gets here. You had better get back to work, right?"

"Mm. I'll be home tonight, all right?" He grins widely at all four of them, and Ed can't help but smile back.

_He seems like an awesome Dad._

* * *

Lunch is quiet, especially by Ed's standards. Al still seems too scared to say much, and Ed doesn't know these people at all. The little girl looks at him often with wide eyes, but Mrs. Hughes seems more focused on Al. Ed can't understand. Why does everyone keep looking at his little brother like that? It's starting to scare him.

"So what's your mother like, boys?" Mrs. Hughes asks at last, looking up from her sandwich. "What do you guys do together?"

Quite honestly, Ed has no idea how to describe his mother. She's just the  _ best _ . "She's awesome!" he says at last, grinning over at Mrs. Hughes. "We practice alchemy, and play games, and read, and go to see the Rockbells..."

She laughs—it's a nice sound, but not as nice as Mom's—and nods. "Well, we've got games and books here, and Winry'll be in town soon. Hopefully you'll be okay until Roy figures out how to send you back home."

Ed nods. Even if this lady isn't  _ quite _ as perfect as their own mom, she still seems really nice. They'll be okay here. But... "Do you have a phone? Can we  _ call _ Mom, at least?"

Al still looks very upset, still hasn't said a word, and Ed is sure talking to her—even on a telephone—will cheer him up greatly.

(He's always laughed at his little brother for being so attached to Mom, but now that they're separated, Ed realizes that he's exactly the same.)

Mrs. Hughes hesitates, staring at both of them for a moment before sighing. "We don't have long-distance calling on our phone. I'm sorry, but that just isn't possible."

"Oh." Ed deflates, glancing over to Al. His head has sunk even lower, and he can see his lower lip trembling dangerously. He has to do  _ something _ for his brother. "When is Winry gonna get here, then?"

"It's only a couple hours by train. If there is one today, she should be here before the morning," Mrs. Hughes says quickly, also looking at Al. "Oh, Alphonse, you don't need to cry—everything will be all right. Maes and Roy and the others will get you home very soon!"

Al lets out a sob, flinging himself toward Ed and hugging him tight. Elysia starts to say something, sounding very confused, but Mrs. Hughes quickly shushes her, telling her to go play in the other room.

Ed isn't very good at making people feel better, but this is  _ Al, _ and he's the older brother, and that's what he's supposed to do, right? So he rubs Al's back the way Mom does, and tells him it'll all be okay.

(Even if he's not sure of that himself, he has to make Al happy. He's lying, but it's for a good reason—that makes it okay, right?)

"I'll go call Maes and see if he knows when Winry's train will be here," Mrs. Hughes says after a moment. "Is that okay with you two? I'll only be in the next room, so just tell me if you need something."

Al's grip around Ed's neck only tightens, so Ed nods to her quickly. As soon as she is gone, Al finally speaks, though his voice is choked with tears and his face is still buried in Ed's shoulder. "Brother, I wanna go home..."

The stab of guilt Ed feels (it had been  _ his _ idea to try the transmutation, after all— _ he only wanted to make Mom smile _ ) is sudden and painful, but he forces himself to ignore it. "Roy said he's gonna work on it, right? We'll get home soon, and Winry'll even be here until we do! It'll be okay, I promise."

Alphonse's grip is only tightening, though it sounds like his sobs have lessened a bit. "Will we be okay?"

Ed hugs his little brother tighter, pretending the words he has to say are not a lie. "Course we will."

* * *

As it turns out, Winry had apparently been able to catch a train very soon after Roy had called her. Mrs. Hughes has assured them with a kind smile that she'll be in Central in time for dinner.

The hours seem to drag on and on for Ed. Al has stopped crying, and Mrs. Hughes got him washed up without a problem, but he still sniffles every now and then, and he's a lot quieter than he has been in a very long time. Ed knows he has to think of a way to cheer him up, to distract him, at least until Winry gets here.

"What kind of books do you have?" he asks Mrs. Hughes a half-hour or so after lunch. It's easy for the both of them to lose themselves in text, in the theories and algorithms and runes. He hopes the Hugheses have at least one book on alchemy to distract Al. If they do, Winry'll be here so much faster.

"All sorts," she says, looking up from her sewing and smiling. "From what I've heard, you probably won't want any storybooks, though, huh?"

He shrugs. Storybooks are, well...they're okay. Mom and Dad used to read them when he and Al were little. But even if the stories can be interesting, he much prefers fact, textbooks,  _ learning. _

But any book is better than no book at all.

"I know Maes kept some of his old textbooks. I'm not sure about alchemy, though. I can check—just give me a moment." Ed nods, so she stands up, heading for the other room.

Ed looks over to where Al is sitting on the floor with the Elysia girl, building block towers and mostly listening to her talk. They seem to notice him looking after a moment, for the girl stops talking and they both look over; Ed smiles reassuringly at his brother, opening his mouth to tell him Mrs. Hughes is looking for books, when Elysia interrupts—

"Your name's Ed?"

"Yeah," he says, turning his attention to her and frowning a bit. Why does she care?

"I have an uncle named Ed!" She sounds very excited about this, and before Ed can respond, she continues—"He's really short and has a little big brother and he's friends with Mama and Papa and he looks just like you—"

"Elysia, what are you talking about?" Mrs. Hughes has come back, holding a stack of books in her arms. "I told you not to talk too much—Alphonse is very upset, and—"

"But Ed looks like Uncle Ed!" she insists, staring up at her mother with wide eyes.

"Elysia!" Her voice is unexpectedly sharp, and all three of them jump. Al cowers back a bit, and Elysia looks shocked that her mother would do such a thing.

"Mama, what's wrong?"

Mrs. Hughes looks like she's seen something really scary—like the way Dad had looked the last time they saw him. "It's—it's nothing. I'm sorry for yelling. We just shouldn't talk about that, okay?"

Elysia nods slowly, her eyes still large and frightened, and Mrs. Hughes sighs. She sets the pile of books down next to Al before picking up her daughter. "I hope some of those will be okay for you guys," she says after a moment, smiling in an obvious attempt to make them feel better. (Ed can see her arms shaking.) "I need to talk to Elysia, so we'll be over in her bedroom. Just yell if you need something, okay?"

The two of them nod, and soon the Hugheses are gone. Al is leafing half-heartedly through a few of the thick books—physics, chemistry, history, but no alchemy, it seems—but Ed cannot even concentrate on the books he loves so much. What is wrong with Mrs. Hughes? Why did she look so scared? And Elysia said her—her  _ Uncle Ed _ looked like him.

He isn't stupid; just because he's five years old doesn't mean he can't understand. Something is weird about these people. No matter how nice they are, no matter how many times they say they want to help...he doesn't know them, right? And the first lesson he remembers learning from his mother is  _ don't talk to strangers. _

Al seems to have selected a book—organic chemistry, something they've only seen  _ mentioned _ at home—and is sitting in the armchair, the large book almost obscuring him from view. Ed can only hope it will make him feel better, at least until Winry gets here and everything gets fixed and they can go home.

This is surely the same world they have lived in since they were born—he knows everything is the same as it is (was?) back home. But he's realizing, as much as he doesn't want to admit it, everything is different. It's scaring him to death.

Mom isn't here and Dad isn't here and nobody will let him talk to anyone he knows. And he doesn't know these people, doesn't know anything about them, so how is he supposed to keep Al safe? That's what Mom and Dad and Granny and everyone else have always told him.  _ You're the big brother, and Al relies on you. You have to protect him, all right? _ And he's always accepted this, has promised to do this for as long as he can remember, but he never knew it would be so  _ hard. _

His head hurts thinking about all these things, though, and he knows that worrying won't make anything better. (Mom worries all the time, and she looks so sad.) So he picks up a book on Amestrian history and tries to focus on the words written out before him. He knows what they all mean; he should be able to understand.

But long after Al is engrossed in his alkanes and his carbon rings, Ed still cannot concentrate.

Something is so wrong here. Why can't he figure it out?

* * *

Winry arrives at last in a blur of blonde hair and old, battered suitcase and desperate sobs. Before Ed has even properly realized that she's arrived, before he can take in the fact that she's so  _ old _ and before he can alert Al to her presence, he is swept into a tight hug as Winry crosses the room.

"Oh god, Ed—"

He isn't quite sure what to do, has never been good at comforting a crying Winry. So he only wraps his arms around her neck, hoping it will make her feel a little better. Where is Al? He's always been better at this.

Al has indeed gotten up from his chair, an alarmed look on his face as he hurries toward them. "Winry, why're you crying?"

But instead of calming down (to Ed's horror), Winry's sobs only increase in volume as she lets go of Ed to turn toward Al. The embrace she gives him is even more desperate than Ed's. She doesn't seem able to form words at this point, only heaving great sobs all over Al's head as he gingerly hugs her back.

"Winry, what's wrong?" Al tries again, sounding just as scared as Ed feels. "I don't—I don't understand..."

She shakes her head, though, releasing him as she clearly tries to get herself under control. "Sorry, it's nothing...you guys, you're just so  _ little! _ "

In any other situation, Ed knows, he would fly off the handle, demand that she take it back because he  _ isn't small, _ okay? But even he, terrible with others' emotions, can tell that that would be a bad thing to say right now.

"Is something wrong?" he asks, furrowing his brow and walking to stand next to her and Al. Winry is kneeling, is staring back and forth between the two of them like she can't believe this is real.

"We'll get back home so you can have— _ your _ us back," he says after several beats of silence, taking a shot in the dark. How do teenagers work? He figures that trying to make her feel better like they do Mom is a safe bet. "Roy and Mr. Hughes say it'll all be okay, so it will."

She gives a sort of choked laugh, pulling them both into another hug. "Oh, it's not that I don't want to see you two. I just haven't seen you so small in forever, you know?"

Ed suppresses a twitch and a yell (he is  _ not _ short!) in favor of returning the hug, rubbing her back like Mom does. Why is she so upset? What she's saying doesn't make any sense.

"You should probably stop calling us little," Al says after a second, and Ed can hear the grin in his voice. "I think Brother might explode soon."

Winry laughs again as she pulls away, and though it still sounds rather hysterical, the smile on her face looks genuine. "I guess you're right, huh?" She reaches over and ruffles Al's hair—eliciting a squeak and a surprised squirm—before standing up and offering each of them a hand. "Mrs. Hughes said dinner's almost ready. We should go help set the table, yeah?"

Ed takes the offered hand, almost reluctantly, because he  _ hates _ setting the table. But he doesn't want to make Winry start crying again, so he doesn’t argue.

"Some things don't change, huh?" Mr. Hughes says from the front entryway, smiling at all three of them. Ed jumps; he didn't realize he was still there. And he isn't sure what the man means by that, but Winry seems to understand; she laughs as well, shaking her head.

"You know these two!"

Ed wants to object, because this man  _ doesn't _ know them, not really. They've only been here for a few hours! But Al and Winry are already walking again, so he hurries to catch up. He doesn't understand. Something weird is going on here, and he wants to know what it is.

He would ask Winry—he knows her,  _ trusts _ her, because they've been friends since before he can remember. But he doesn't want to make her cry again, and until he finds out why she's so sad...

This will take time—and patience, something he knows he doesn't have much of. But he has to figure this out—he  _ has _ to. His mind won't rest until he discovers the truth.


	5. reflection

_ r e w i n d _

_ . _

_ . _

_ . _

_ . _

"Edward,  _ please!" _

Trisha doesn't think she's ever felt so helpless before, so desperate and scared and lost _ . _ Her baby boy— _ her little Edward _ —is curled into a ball in the same chair as before, looking absolutely anywhere but her horrified eyes. He and Sara and Pinako have assured her that the pain has faded, that—whatever it was—has disappeared.

But the agony in his eyes, the way his mouth is downturned in anguish and the way he is still shaking uncontrollably-- she can't do this anymore.

Before this evening—before she had to witness her son in such horrific pain—she was content with not knowing. The little things ( _ Alphonse can't have possibly grown that big _ and _ why does a faint but perpetual clanking follow Edward wherever he goes _ and _ why are they treating me like I might turn on them at any moment) _ —she's forced herself to ignore them, to push them aside in favor of spending time with her boys. They are her entire  _ life, _ after all; she can't possibly imagine an existence without them.

And yet— 

She feels like she doesn't know them—not really. They are surely her sons (their voices and mannerisms leave no doubt in her mind) but she can't just ignore it any longer. She's seen the teenagers around town, remembers her own adolescence. No one— _ no one— _ has looked so haunted as her Edward does now.

Sara and Pinako are hovering near her (Sara's eyes are red, though she is clearly trying to hide it; Pinako hasn't looked so grave since Van left;  _ what is going on _ ), while Alphonse has nearly worried himself to death over his brother. Ed keeps saying he's fine— _ really, Al, Mom, I'm okay now. There's nothing to worry about— _ but Trisha can't bring herself to believe him anymore. She wishes with her entire being that this is a misunderstanding, perhaps a terrible nightmare; she can't understand what is happening to her little boys.

(Lightning illuminates the room, making them all look grotesquely disfigured for the smallest of moments. The helmet Alphonse is wearing turns demonic, threatening,  _ horrifying _ as he leans over his brother.)

(She isn't waking up from this nightmare…not this time.)

"Sweetie, why can't you just tell me what's wrong?" she pleads, her voice cracking. She sees Edward flinch harshly, watches as the pain in his eyes only increases tenfold. Is he  _ crying? _ They are too far away; she cannot tell, but his eyes are glassy and his shoulders are heaving. Alphonse pulls him into a hug. 

She would give anything to be that pillar of support, to comfort her sons when they so obviously need it…but right now, it seems that she's the one causing the problems in the first place.

The guilt is crushing her, suffocating her until her lungs are gasping and her mind is spinning and her heart feels ready to slam right out of her chest. Whatever this is, whatever had Ed nearly screaming not an hour before and what now has Al holding his brother protectively, as if the world itself is threatening them— 

And then she realizes—maybe that's how they feel about her, after all. It's a horrific thought, that  _ she _ is the cause of all of this, but is it really so ridiculous? Surely, before they arrived here, her boys' lives were normal and happy. And practically since they arrived, they’ve been secretive, scared and skittish around her despite their reassurances that they love her more than anything in the world.

All she can do, it seems, is bring them pain…

"Mom," Surprisingly it is Alphonse's broken voice that tears her from her stupor. She refocuses on her sons to see that Al has stood up, has one hand stretched out toward her. It dwarfs hers in comparison, but she takes it in her own anyway, grasping desperately like a drowning woman. 

"Brother, he messed up his shoulder pretty badly a few years ago. He—he got hit by a tractor…" He's not looking at her, is staring at a point far past her as he continues before she can even panic properly—"It's okay now. It's just, with bad weather like this, it acts up sometimes. It hasn't been that bad in a while, that's all. I didn't want to scare you…"

Trisha wants to believe him; she wishes with every fiber of her being that she can take his words as truth. But far too many things don't match up; she is sure Alphonse is lying.

She wants to scream and reach for the sky, beg the heavens for answers, because even if her sons and her friends want to keep this  _ (what is it? _ ) from her, maybe some higher power will have mercy. But she can't, because if she admits that she doesn't believe the story then that will only hurt Alphonse, hurt Edward. Even if she hates this, hates not knowing and hates being useless…

Some things are forgivable. Hurting her own sons is not.

So she pretends to believe the story for now (lies lies  _ lies _ what are they so desperate to keep from her) and pulls her younger son into a hug. She ignores the cold, stiff metal encasing his body, ignores the way his elbows bite into her shoulders as he tentatively embraces her back.

(She can't ignore the way he's shaking, though—the way the armor rattles in a too-hollow way. She can't ignore the distinct sob that wrenches itself from his throat.)

And then she feels another pair of arms embracing her, embracing Alphonse, and shaking even more violently than her younger son. Edward is there, grasping desperately at her dress like it’s the only thing holding the world together, and tears are falling thick and fast down his cheeks. Al makes a noise, as if he wants to comfort his brother but doesn't know where to start; the unadulterated anguish in Edward's voice as he sobs is too much for Trisha to bear.

"It'll be all right," she whispers, running her fingers over his hair in the way that has always calmed him down. (He's so much older, but he's just a boy. He’s only fifteen, and teenagers should never,  _ never _ be so anguished as her son is now.)

Edward's grip on both of them is only tightening, though he's clearly trying to get his emotions under control. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—"

Al sobs again, but Trisha doesn't understand. What is he apologizing for? Edward is a good person, no matter how headstrong; that pain he endured wasn't at all his fault.

"There's nothing to be sorry for," she says immediately. "You haven't done anything wrong."

He only shakes his head, though, gripping her dress ever-tighter, and dissolves into more sobs. Trisha can only pull them both more firmly into her arms, pull her little boys into the safety of her embrace. No matter how terrible of a mother she might be, no matter what she's put her boys through—

_ ("What—no—that's not it at all—you're the best Mom  _ ever _ —") _

_ — _ and no matter how much they are lying to her, none of that matters right now. She's their mother; her two boys are lost and desperate and  _ alone. _ She needs to make this right for them.

(And no matter how frightened she herself feels, her sons always come first.)

* * *

She doesn't notice when the storms start to let up, when the rain begins to abate and the sun does its best to shine through the clouds. She doesn't know how long they've been here like this, doesn't know how to make her sons' lives better…

(But she knows she has to try. What kind of mother would she be if she did not?)

Edward's sobs have faded, though he has not loosened his grip on her in the slightest. Al's armor has quieted as his violent trembling subsides. Suddenly, Edward lets go of her and takes a step back; his eyes are very red and trained at the ground. (Trisha is vividly reminded of  _ her _ Ed, the way he stands when he's done something wrong and is trying to apologize.) "I'm sorry…you don't understand, but—"

"Sweetie, this wasn't your fault," she says immediately. She wants to embrace him again, protect him from whatever is lurking in the horrors behind his eyes, but he continues before she can say any more.

"It—it  _ is, _ because—"

But he shakes his head, suddenly, violently, as if he physically  _ cannot continue. _ And she wants to press him for answers, press him for the information she wants  _ (needs) _ to hear…but he looks so desperate and broken and  _ lost _ that she simply cannot. Al has stepped back too, now, looking between his mother and his brother and somehow appearing small and terrified in the huge armor.

(Nothing is making any sense.)

There is a knock at the door, sudden and loud, and Trisha jumps at the noise. Pinako hurries to answer the door—and when she opens it, when Urey and Winry rush into the house, looking worried…

Trisha knows she has to pull herself together; she knows she can't be this weak in front of her boys and her friends. But so much is going through her mind—so much that she can barely keep up—and she isn't sure a calm façade is possible as Urey steps toward her, worry written across his face.

"Trisha, are you all right? I wanted to come earlier, but I couldn't leave Winry alone, with the weather—"

"It's fine," she says immediately, on impulse, because she knows she would have done the same. "Everything's okay now, whatever happened to Edward is over."

Urey opens his mouth to answer, but Winry gives a little shriek and runs to Edward, staring up at him in shock. "Who're you? You look just like Ed!"

Trisha sees Edward glance toward Sara and Pinako, as if asking permission to answer. Pinako nods (it's not like Winry wouldn't have badgered them all into giving her answers, anyway), so Ed says, "I  _ am _ Ed. I'm from 1914—we changed times somehow."

_ "Woah," _ she says, and the excitement is radiating off her as she squints up at Ed, as if checking to see if he is lying. "What happens? Does Uncle Ho come back and teach you lots of alchemy? What do I look like?"

She continues on and on, and Trisha finds it almost cathartic, the way Winry's asking all the questions she knows  _ she _ never can. And it seems to be doing her boys good as well; Ed's eyes are still red as he squats down to talk to Winry; he's still shaking and sends Trisha involuntary, terrified glances every so often. But Winry is cheerful and five years old and innocent to the true gravity of this situation, and she draws them both into conversation effortlessly as Al squats down as well.

She thinks that maybe, just maybe, they'll be all right.

"Well, you're older, like us," Al is saying. Trisha thinks she can hear a smile in his voice. "Your hair's really long, and—"

_ "Al?" _ she shifts her gaze to him, her eyes wide as only a child's can be. "Al, s'that you?"

"Yup, just doing some alchemy training right now."

"That's so cool! You're so big!" Her eyes are trained on him, now, taking in the enormous helmet and the spikes on his shoulders and the breastplate she could probably use as a chair.

Al laughs again, but his voice is distinctly more forced. (How is it that she can tell what he's feeling so easily, even though she can't see his face?) "Yup. And you're training to be an automail engineer—you can do some amazing stuff."

"Really?" Her eyes are impossibly wider as she turns back to her parents and Pinako. "Granny, can I start learning now  _ please? _ I have to, if I wanna get better!"

Edward laughs, and Trisha thinks she's right; the pain—so clear in his voice before—has dimmed, if only a bit. "You'll be awesome anyway—I wouldn't worry about it too much."

(Trisha thinks she sees Pinako stiffen, lock her steely gaze on Edward, but she has no time to wonder why.) Winry turns back to him, her eyes shining with excitement. "Really? You mean it?"

Ed only grins and reaches out to ruffle her hair in answer. But Urey is walking toward Ed, now, pulling him up by the arm and insisting they bring him upstairs because  _ whatever that was, it was bad _ and  _ your muscles need time to rest _ and  _ it's getting late so you should probably go to sleep anyway… _

And despite the annoyance clear on Ed's face, despite the half-hearted grumbles as Urey leads him toward the stairs, he does not protest. (The glint in his eye as he looks up at Urey is strange. She can't put her finger on why.)

Soon enough, they have settled Edward into his makeshift cot (even if he's rather short for his age—not that Trisha would ever mention it—he's far too big for  _ her _ boys' beds now), with Alphonse hovering worriedly nearby. Winry is wandering around the room, looking at their sparse belongings as the rest of them make sure Edward will be all right.

Of course, Ed keeps telling them that he's fine—a hint of irritation is seeping into his voice by now—but Trisha can't get the image out of her head of the way he looked barely an hour ago, before Pinako and Sara had arrived. His face had been the color of old milk; he was clutching his shoulder as if he thought his arm might fall off; he was barely containing screams of agony—and he had tried to tell her that he was  _ fine. _

But Al seems satisfied that his brother will be all right, now, and it's obvious that he knows his brother best. So she lets the subject drop, preparing to ask if he wants anything to drink before he falls asleep—

But Winry gasps loudly in excitement, digging through the messy heap of pajamas Ed wore the night before and producing something on a long, silver chain. "Ed, where'd you get this? Is it Uncle Ho's? It's so pretty!"

Ed's head had snapped Winry's way harshly as soon as she began speaking. Now, as he realizes what she is holding, he makes an odd sort of choking noise, his mouth falling open silently. Al is motionless for a moment as well before he slowly stands up, walking toward her. (Trisha can see him shaking.) "No, Winry…it's just a watch."

Trisha is stepping closer as well, now, because the horror on Edward's face is only growing. But why is this so terrible? What's wrong—?

Alphonse is taking the watch from Winry, closing his enormous fist around it and holding it behind his back almost childishly as Trisha steps closer. "What is it, sweetie?"

She's more curious than worried by this point, because surely nothing as harmless as a pocket watch could cause more trouble than they have already been through. (But the way Ed's breathing is quick and uneven, the way Al is shuffling from foot to foot and not meeting her eyes…)

"It's—it's nothing, Mom. Just something we got from a friend."

She wants to believe him—really, she does. But their fidgeting, their panicked eyes belie the calm exterior they are trying so hard to keep up. "I just want to see it—"

He shakes his head, quickly, violently, and seems to shrink in on himself though he does not reply verbally.

She opens her mouth to argue—clearly, whatever this is, it's important—but a voice from behind her cuts her off. "Al, just give it to her."

_ (Edward?) _

She turns slowly to see her elder son sitting up, his face pale as chalk and eyes full of pain. She doesn't have time to think about what he means by that, though, because Al heaves a badly-stifled sob before putting the watch in her hands. It's large—large and heavy; that's the first thing she notices about it. It's clearly seen some wear, with nicks and scratches covering its surface.

She doesn't recognize the significance of the symbol on the front immediately (it's just the country's crest, what are they so worried about), and it seems jammed shut, so she flips it over, inspecting the back.

_ FULLMETAL ALCHEMIST _

She stares at it for a moment, her brow furrowed, her mind refusing to catch up and  _ realize _ and  _ understand. _ 'Fullmetal Alchemist,’ what in the world…

She can feel her sons' eyes on her; she can feel the Rockbells waiting for an explanation. But—she doesn't—

Suddenly, it clicks, and she nearly screams as the watch falls from her nerveless fingers.

.

.

.

.

_ f a s t f o r w a r d _

_ . _

_ . _

_ . _

_ . _

"Dad?  _ Daddy! _ "

Maes barely has time to spin around before Alphonse hurtles into the crowd. He immediately takes off after him, shoving people aside and searching desperately for the boy in his charge. Gracia aside—if he loses Al, Ed and Winry will beat him into next week.

It's the morning after the boys arrived in 1914, a Saturday, and he had volunteered to do the shopping. Edward had stayed home (Maes doesn't envy Gracia and Winry—he's surely putting them through the wringer, trying to find out what's happened), but Al decided to come along.

It's still hard for Maes to wrap his head around it all—the boy whom he's always known as the suit of armor (no matter how much he tries to remember) has never truly been a  _ child _ to him. But now, when he sees a boy (who is, frankly, utterly adorable), not much older than his own Elysia, he realizes that's what Edward sees when he looks at his brother.

He realizes that their situation is so much worse than he has ever imagined.

But he has no time to ponder these miracles now. He has found Alphonse, but the boy is ignoring him, has latched himself onto a man's pant leg. Maes allows his gaze to travel upwards after he ensures that Alphonse is all right, and his breath catches in his throat as he gets a good look at the man. He's—

_ The spitting image of Edward. _

Their hair is the same—long and blond and tied back; their eyes are that same eerie gold; their facial structures are almost identical. If Maes had to create an image of the Elrics' father, this would be it.

He doesn't seem to notice the boy attached to his leg, is busy bartering at the fruit stand. Only when Alphonse tugs at his pants, trying "Daddy?" again, does he look down, an expression of bemusement on his face.

"I'm not your—"

But as he gets a good look at Al, as he realizes that they have the same hair, the same eyes… He passes the merchant the money almost absent-mindedly as he crouches down, looking at Al in astonishment. "Alphonse?"

Al gives a little squeal and throws his arms around his father's neck. (Maes does not miss the way the man flinches, the way it takes him several seconds to embrace him back.) "I'm so happy you're here! Mister Hughes and Roy said we couldn't see you or Mom or anyone because Resembool is too far away but—"

The man looks utterly bewildered as Al continues to go on and on; the expression of utter delight has not dimmed from the boy's features. Finally, he gets a word in edgewise—"But—Alphonse—you should be a teenager by now, right?"

"Me and Brother were trying to use one of your circles to see the future, but we got sent here instead," Al explains quickly, pulling away from his father to face him. "Maybe you can help us get back! Mister Hughes, is that okay?"

He looks up at Maes suddenly, eyes shining with excitement, and he can do nothing but nod. After all, they need to get this sorted out as quickly as possible (before  _ these _ Elrics find out what has happened and before  _ their _ Elrics go mad), and surely, the man who created the array would be the one able to reverse it.

But suddenly, he realizes that he  _ hates _ this man. He hates everything about him; he hates the way his eyes flash in pain as he stands up, the way he stands hunched over like the world is on his back…

He hates this man with every fiber of his being, because he's the one who started it all. If he had never left home, had never abandoned his wife and children, Trisha Elric never would have died; those boys never would have tried to bring her back.

If this man hadn't left them, Maes never would have met Ed and Al—but only because they would be peaceful and happy out in Resembool.

But he can't explain any of this, not now—not when Al is there, looking with such joy up at his father. The only reason Maes is not laying into the man, verbally and physically, is because Al is there. He'll have to get him alone later, because if he remembers what Ed said correctly, they couldn't even find this man to tell him their mother had died.

He forces himself to push these thoughts away, though, and sticks out his hand. "Lieutenant Colonel Maes Hughes. Your sons were going to stay with me until we found a way to send them home."

He shakes it—his hand is large and worn and calloused—and smiles tiredly. "Van Hohenheim. That's very kind of you—I'll get this sorted out as soon as possible to get them off your hands."

_ Van Hohenheim. _ It's a strangely pretentious name, one that sounds as if he should know it. (He makes a mental note to ask Roy later. If this man is famous for anything, it'd be alchemy, and Roy knows much more about that than Maes ever will.)

"Mister Hughes, can we go back to your house?" Al asks, breaking him out of his musings. "Brother will want to see Dad! And Winry too—if she's been gone, she probably—"

"Winry?" Hohenheim cuts him off, one eyebrow raised. "What is she doing in Central?"

"She was studying in Rush Valley, but she came up to keep the kids company since there aren't any trains to Resembool," Maes says quickly. If they aren't careful, he knows, Hohenheim will say something to tip Al off. Because surely, Ed is the nosy one—Ed is the one snooping for answers—but Al won't just ignore something right under his nose.

"I see…" Hohenheim's eyes flash, but he says nothing more on the subject as they make their way out of the market. Maes has to hand it to him—at the very least, the man seems sharp enough. (He still can't forgive him for what he did to his own  _ sons, _ though—to just leave his family behind…)

Alphonse is talking nearly nonstop, grasping his father's hand tightly in his own as they turn down the correct street. Hohenheim seems rather bemused, looking down and smiling tentatively at his son as he goes on—

"They won't let us call Mom and we can't go home so I thought we'd be stuck here all alone and I miss Mom  _ so much _ but you're here now so it'll be okay!"

"That's right," Hohenheim says tentatively, as if not sure he should. "I'll look at the circle you used when we get to Mister Hughes' house, and hopefully I'll be able to send you back without a problem."

Al beams up at him, hurrying to the correct apartment behind Maes. "What's happening at home? Why are you in Central?"

Hohenheim hesitates, looking rather lost as he glances at Maes. He only glowers for a moment, though, before saying, "Here we go, Al. Could you run inside real quick and tell Mrs. Hughes to set an extra place for lunch?"

Al nods immediately and speeds through the front door to the kitchen. Maes wastes no time, shutting the door loudly before turning to glare at Hohenheim.

The blond man turns to him as well, looking confused. "What's wrong?"

"Where the hell have you been for the past twelve years of those boys' lives?"

It comes out biting, accusatory, and even if it's a far cry from his usual demeanor, Maes can't bring himself to care. This man—this useless excuse for a father—

Hohenheim is staring at him as if trying to remember something, and it is several seconds before he replies. "I'm sorry, I'm not sure I know you—"

"You don't." He's losing what little patience he has left as those calm golden eyes stare back at him, waiting for an explanation. "But I know your sons—your  _ proper _ sons, the ones who are back in 1904 right now. And you should know that if Edward were here, he would not be as calm as I am right now."

Hohenheim sighs, digging in his pocket for a moment before producing a train ticket. "This is for Resembool—I was planning to head home as soon as I left the market. Trisha has been waiting far too long…even if—"

Maes has to control himself, to keep his hand from grasping the knife at his back and holding it to this bastard's throat.  _ "You have no idea," _ he grinds out. He feels his eyes filling with angry tears, but he does nothing to swipe them away as he continues—"You—how can you  _ not  _ know—they're all over the papers—"

"What?" Hohenheim says sharply. His eyes aren't lazy and relaxed as they had been; his stance is suddenly tense and unsure as he stares back at Maes. "What don't I know?"

"Their mother—she's dead." It comes out bluntly—perhaps a bit  _ too  _ bluntly, to tell a man his wife has passed away, but he continues regardless—"They were five and six. And then they tried to bring her back—"

He is ready to continue, ready to lay into the man and tell him exactly what sort of Hell those boys have gone through…but Hohenheim lets out a sudden, loud sob, barely catching himself on the door. "What happened?"

"Edward said it was an epidemic," Maes says carefully. Despite his hatred for this man, despite everything he has done to his own family, with the way Hohenheim looks so horribly, utterly consumed by sudden and blinding grief…he's not sure how to react. The way Ed had described their father, Maes has allowed himself to create the image of an uncaring, emotionless  _ monster. _ Who else would vanish without a trace when he had a wife and sons at home?

But the man before him is none of those things. Tears are streaming down his cheeks, and though he has righted himself, he still looks unsteady and horrified as he struggles to focus on Maes. "You said—human transmutation? What did it take?"

The terror, the  _ agony _ in his eyes is almost too much for Maes to bear. "Al—Al's a soul bound to a suit of armor," he says, his voice low and eyes averted. "Ed saved his life—he's lost an arm and a leg, but he's driving himself mad trying to restore Alphonse's body. He's a State Alchemist—has been since he was twelve."

Hohenheim's eyes flash in something like panic at the mention of State Alchemists, but before he can say anything in reply, Gracia opens the door, looking worried. "Are you two coming—are you all right?" Her eyes lock quickly on Hohenheim's blotchy, tear-stained face. "What's wrong?"

"Maes—he told me everything," Hohenheim says, shaking his head and trying to wipe his eyes, even as more tears fall freely down his cheeks. "Edward and Alphonse—they couldn't hear what we said, could they?"

"No, they're helping Winry set the table." Her eyes flit to Maes, obviously unsure before they turn back to Hohenheim. "You're their father, then?"

He nods, swallowing thickly before he replies—"I swear, if I knew anything of what happened, I would have gone straight home. I had no idea…"

Maes does not doubt for a second that it's the truth. That agony so clear on his face, the way he's shaking uncontrollably—that can't possibly be faked. And Maes knows now—even if he did leave, Van Hohenheim still cares about his family.

(So why did he go in the first place? He wants to know,  _ needs _ to know, but now is not the time or place to ask.)

* * *

It's later that night when the phone rings. 

"Do the Elrics have any idea how to reverse the circle?" Roy is talking almost the moment Maes picks up the phone, not even bothering with a greeting. His voice cracks in frustration, in self-loathing as he continues— "Armstrong and I have been looking at it all day. We don't even know where to  _ start—" _

In any other situation, Maes would laugh, would point out to his friend how he's developed a soft spot for those boys. But the situation is dire, and he's just as worried himself. "I haven't asked them, but Al found his father in the market, so—"

_ "Van Hohenheim?" _

"Yeah, he said he'd help reverse the circle as soon as possible. I'm worried about  _ ours, _ though—God knows what this is doing to them."

Roy makes a noise of agreement on the other end, though he's clearly skeptical about the boys' father. Maes supposes the suspicion is justified—surely, Roy has heard Edward rant the most about the man—but they don't really have an option anymore.

But his friend continues quickly—"We need to set this straight as soon as we can—the higher-ups are already asking where they are. They haven't officially checked in from that mission. I can put it off as automail repairs for a few days, but—"

Maes swears under his breath; he hasn't even  _ thought _ of that, but of  _ course _ the military would want to know where their favorite alchemists have gone. "Get over here first thing tomorrow—the boys are already in bed, but hopefully we can get this sorted out soon enough."

"Right. I'll tell Armstrong to come as well." There is a slight pause on the other end before he continues—"Are they all right? You haven't told them anything?"

"We've been dodging Ed's questions all day," Maes says, trying to crack a smile. It falls flat; his voice sounds almost bitter as he continues—"Kid knows something's up. We don't have much time before he figures out the truth."

Roy sighs. "Stupid kid…he'll drive himself into an early grave like this." (Neither of them laugh, because they both know it's true.) "We'll be there. Try to keep them out of trouble, yeah?"

"I'll do my best."

(They can't hide this forever, but he can damn well try. Those boys  _ can't _ learn what has happened…it'll tear them apart.)

* * *

** _(A midnight conversation.)_ **

"When we fix this—all those things you told me, out in the hallway, you need to tell Edward."

"What difference will it make?" (A heavy sigh.)

"He thinks you just abandoned them—Al does too, but he's too kind to say it. You need to make this right—whatever reason you have for leaving…"

"It won't change anything, you know that."

"What do you mean?" (He knows the answer, but he wishes it weren't true.)

"Trisha is dead. My sons' lives are ruined. At this point, nothing I say will ever change their minds."

(He's right, of course, but the finality of it all is terrible and crushing.)

(Both men would do anything to turn back time and make this right, but it's far too late for that now.)


	6. requiem

_ r e w i n d _

_ . _

_ . _

_ . _

_ . _

This cannot be happening.

This…this is  _ impossible. _

Reality is crashing down around them; their world is falling falling falling and there's no saving it now.

_ Mom found the watch. _ Mom found the watch. How are they supposed to lie to her now? She'll want to know  _ why _ he signed up,  _ why _ he's tethered himself to that hellhole,  _ why _ she ever allowed him to join— 

The lies they've tried so hard to build up (a desperate hope that could never survive) are crumbling to dust now, because  _ Mom found the watch _ and it's only a matter of time until she knows everything.

(He can't take it can't take it can't take it  _ he only wants to make her smile _ that's all he's ever wanted, and maybe it's selfish or selfless and maybe he doesn't even know right from wrong or up from down anymore, but he knows  _ this is his mother _ and all he can ever do is kill her again and again because these hands are made only for destruction.)

He wants to embrace her, pull her away from the truth, because maybe  _ there's still time _ and maybe  _ we can be convincing enough _ and maybe if they're very, very lucky, just this once,  _ the universe will pity them _ and they can stop their lives from ever spiraling out of control.

(Maybe she won't die.)

He knows it's too much to wish for, knows it all as the watch slips through his mother's fingers and falls to the floor, loud in the silence of the bedroom. Edward goes forward carefully, slowly, and picks it up ( _ don't forget _ don't ever forget the day you burnt away your childhood forever) before forcing himself to turn to his mother.

He's faced down chimeras and Homunculi and serial killers, but he's never felt so terrified as he does now. He's had limbs ripped off and metal wired in their place and has been torn apart by his enemies, but that's next to nothing compared to the pain he's feeling when faced with his (perfect, beautiful,  _ dying _ ) mother.

This is it, and there's no going back.

"Mom…"

Her wide eyes (filling with tears— _ it's all his fault _ ) snap to him, tear themselves away from Alphonse. And Edward realizes, suddenly, that she must be thinking that  _ Al _ is the State Alchemist, that  _ Al _ is the one who has sold his soul to the dogs that lead this country, because isn't he the one wearing  _ full metal?  _ Even if he cannot remove her pain, even if he cannot make her forget everything she is about to know, he can lessen the agony, if only a bit.

(Her baby boy is still free, is still unfettered and unbound to that damned military. No matter how good of a fighter he is, no matter how well he can argue when you hit the right nerve, Al is far too gentle for fighting and killing and  _ dying. _ )

(Edward can't do much for his mother, not anymore—but he can do this.)

"It's—it's me, Mom," he mutters, looking with difficulty into her watering eyes. "Not Al… _ I'm _ Fullmetal."

He's hoping to see some sort of relief in her gaze, something to tell him this is going to be all right, because  _ he'll _ be fine as long as  _ she _ is. But the horror is still there, permeating every atom in the room, and it's almost as if the Rockbells have left, because Ed sure as hell doesn't notice them now.

(Surely, they realize why he joined the military. Surely, after everything he's told them, they know that he has to make this right. Surely, they understand why he must do this.)

(But neither Granny nor Auntie Rockbell jumps to help him with the words he can't say, and he knows they're on their own in this.)

( _ "Not my place to tell your mother anything." _ He knows it's true, but the eloquence he's always lacked is mocking him from just out of reach.)

It's irrational and stupid and doomed from the start, but Ed can't help but backpedal, allow his mind to race through every escape route. Some State Alchemists—Tucker, Marcoh—joined the military purely for research. "Fullmetal" is his title because he specializes in metal transmutations. He's never had to fight, never been to war—don't worry, Mom— 

But these crumble apart in his mind even before they've properly been formed, because he  _ just can't take it anymore. _ These lies, this deceit and this deadly game of pretend…they're tearing him apart at the seams. It hasn't even been two days since they arrived; they haven't even spent two days with their mother, but he's already prepared to break down.

"Edward?" His mother's voice cracks, and as he snaps himself back to reality, looks up into her watering eyes.

_ This is impossible. _ He just—he can't—

"It's—it's a really long story," he mutters, throwing his gaze to the ground to avoid the agony in hers. "It's not—it's not  _ really _ military. Just research, is all…"

He knows immediately that she doesn’t believe him. While the story's logical—would satisfy anyone else—he's been too careless, too  _ weak _ when it comes to his mother. He and Al have let too much slip, and it's only a matter of time before the floodgates open and she learns  _ everything. _

(It's inevitable, but somehow, he's still desperate to stop it, to save her from the horrors their lives have become. She doesn't deserve this— _ any _ of this—and God knows Edward doesn't deserve such a perfect mother.)

(He realizes suddenly—maybe that's why she was taken away.)

"Why do you keep lying to me?" Her voice is loud and desperate and choked with sobs. "I just—I want to  _ help— _ just tell me what I've done to you so I can stop it! Please!  _ Please… _ "

_ She thinks it's her fault. _ A thrill of horror burns through his stomach as he realizes—she's blaming herself because he's such a worthless excuse for a son.

He wants— _ needs _ —to make this better, to convince her ( _ somehow _ —he's never had the right words to say) that she is so, so wrong, but he doesn't even know where to start. One glance at Al shows Ed that he is just as lost, just as scared.

Maybe she can stop everything from happening. Maybe she can cling to life, knowing what is in store for her sons if she does not. Maybe if they tell her everything— 

But,  _ God, _ not now.

It's childish and selfish and he  _ despises _ himself for it, but he just  _ can't. _ His mother—strong, capable, brave, wonderful,  _ selfless _ Trisha Elric—is broken before him, tears falling freely from her pleading eyes as she looks between him and Al. She's desperate for answers,  _ needs _ to know what happened. She will feel better, she thinks, if only she  _ knows. _ She thinks she can prevent this Hell from ever destroying their lives.

But she can't even imagine. Ed knows she isn't prepared—can't  _ possibly _ be prepared—for the truth she needs to hear.

If he refuses to tell her, though…who knows what horrors she will imagine.

(But how can he possibly make this better? His life is in pieces at their feet. He's been coping, has been carrying the burden of its brokenness for the last nine years. But this situation, these two days of miracles and damnation, have sent everything crashing down.)

(He doesn't think he'll be able to pick up all the pieces—not this time.)

He can't lie to her anymore, but he can't tell her the truth. It's an impossible choice: one of two answers that will both ruin his mother's life. They had wanted so desperately to see her again, to hear her voice, to feel her warm arms around them in a comforting embrace that promises everything will be okay.

But none of this is okay—could be considered even  _ remotely _ okay—and somehow, Edward is sure that this is the worst moment he has ever faced in his life.

Tears are falling down his own cheeks, now; Al is heaving sobs next to him, unable to articulate anything else. (all your fault  _ all your fault ALL YOUR FAULT) _ And Edward's mind is a mess of everything and nothing, of truth and lies, of dreams and reality and  _ you deserve to be miserable forever, look how many people would be better off if you had never been born. _ His mind is a mess and his vision is blurred and everything is  _ Mom Mom Mom _ and he needs to but he  _ can't _ and he just can't do this anymore.

"Please… _ none _ of this is your fault," It's the only thing he can think of to say, the most vital thing and the most truthful thing he's ever said to her, because his mother is perfect and he can't stand to think she's blaming herself for this. "I just—you have to believe me, okay?"

It's the last coherent thought he has before he collapses, before Al catches him and their arms clang in a far-too-metallic way. He sees Auntie Rockbell talking with his mother, hears the way both of their voices shake as she slowly, firmly, leads his mother out of the room.

(He feels a sudden, irrational urge to pull her back, because  _ what if she never returns _ and  _ what if she dies earlier than she's supposed to _ ? But they are already gone, across the hall, and Al's strong—trembling _ — _ hands are holding him up on the floor, and he doesn't stand a chance of chasing after her.)

Winry—small, young,  _ innocent _ Winry—is confused, doesn't understand what's happening. Ed can make out her voice, shrill and terrified, wondering what the watch was and why Auntie Trisha is so upset.

Uncle Rockbell says something to Granny in an undertone, too faint for Ed to make out, and then he takes Winry by the hand and leads her to the stairs. The three of them are alone in the bedroom, now, and the silence is thick and heavy and unbearable. Al has not moved, is still grasping Ed's arm as if this physical contact will make everything right again…

Granny walks closer, and Ed can see her face contorted with grief like he has not seen in years.  _ (You're ruining too many lives why are you so damn selfish) _ "I'm so sorry," she says, and everything none of them can say is conveyed in those three words alone. She embraces both of them tightly—embraces them as if doing so will keep their world from falling apart. And then she is gone, and the two of them are alone.

"Brother…"

Ed wants to sob, to  _ scream, _ because the defeat so evident in Alphonse's voice is the worst thing he has ever heard. (There are so many of those tonight.) Al is his little brother; he's the one Ed swore to protect with his life—but how much has he fucked that up? 

Everything is dying; everything is falling down around them, and even if Al is strong (stronger than Ed will ever be), neither of them can take much more of this. So he squeezes Al's unfeeling hand with his left, punches the breastplate with his right, and pretends he isn't declaring their own death sentence with as much bravado as he can muster—

"We'll—tell her tomorrow. Sound good?"

(His voice cracks, but both of them pretend not to notice.)

Al makes a noise of agreement, shifts a few inches away so Ed can lie down properly. It's the beginning of the end, and both of them know it. Any illusion of peace they have will be shattered beyond repair.

_ Everything is your fault. _ He's never been so sure of something in his life. He just wishes he knew how to fix it.

.

.

.

.

_ f a s t f o r w a r d _

_ . _

_ . _

_ . _

_ . _

It's weird, Ed thinks, because Dad is here and he should be reassured by that, but all he feels is a continuous twisting in his gut that is slowly eating toward his mind.

Dad barely talked to him and Al last night, avoided their questioning gazes and hardly said anything at meals. Ed even got the feeling that he was  _ avoiding _ everyone in the house, the way he had disappeared for hours.

(He asks Winry about it that morning, but she only gives him a tight smile and a "I'm sure he just has a lot to think about, is all. Don't worry about it.")

She's writing him off, and he knows this, but it's not like he has a better explanation. He has no idea why Dad would be so quiet, because from what Ed remembers when he was home, he never said much but he was always  _ there. _

Now, it feels like he isn't.

He wants to know but can't bring it up with anyone, because it would only upset Al, and Winry's already told him what she wants him to believe, and he doesn't know the Hugheses hardly at all…

And Dad has holed himself up in the kitchen with Roy and Armstrong, studying that circle and trying to reverse it, so he can't ask him directly. But he realizes, now, as much as he and Al so desperately want to go home, he wants to find the truth first. He knows everyone is lying, knows they're keeping something from them, and Al knows as well. (Late last night, alone in their makeshift bedroom, Al had hugged him tight and asked why nobody was telling the truth. Ed did not have an answer for him.)

They're lying and Ed doesn't know why—doesn't know what they're trying to hide. And he can't get answers from anyone here, because Dad had said not to disturb them in the kitchen even though he and Al could probably help, and no one else will tell the truth. So he realizes he has to find out another way.

It's nearing lunchtime, and while Dad and Roy and Armstrong are still locked in the kitchen, the rest of them are in the sitting room. Al's stomach is rumbling loudly, and he's sent several glances toward Ed and Winry, wanting food but unwilling to interrupt the Hugheses' conversation across the room. Finally, after one particularly loud grumble, Winry stands up from her place on the floor with Elysia and says—"Mister Hughes, could we go eat lunch? I'm getting really hungry."

Al flushes but does not correct her. (Ed hasn't heard Winry's stomach at all—surely, she simply knows that Al doesn't want the attention. It's a very small thing, but one of those that Ed has always liked about her.)

"Sure!" Mister Hughes stands up, smiling brightly; his wife follows close behind and picks up Elysia. "Where do you want to go?"

Ed marks his page in the history book, standing up and grabbing Al's hand. "What's close? I want food  _ now! _ "

Winry and the Hugheses laugh, and Al squeezes his hand appreciatively. Ed knows he's always had a big appetite, but somehow, Al is able to eat even more most of the time.

(Mom always calls them "her little monsters.” He wonders suddenly if she still says that, or if she's decided they're too old.)

(Ed likes it when she calls them that, though. "Her little man” is a close second, because even if he's only five, it makes him feel grown-up and important.)

Mister Hughes suggests a diner that's only a few blocks away—in a much less populated part of the city—and everyone agrees. Ed grins and makes his way toward the kitchen, tugging Al behind him—Dad will  _ have _ to come with them, he can't miss _ food— _

But Mister Hughes catches him by the shoulder, looking apologetic. "Sorry, I'm not sure your dad will want to come. He's like you when it comes to alchemy—doesn't like to be interrupted."

Ed wonders briefly how Mister Hughes knows this about him—whether Dad or Winry mentioned it at some point—but he doesn't have time to wonder. Al is pulling him toward the kitchen door, looking worried, and talking to Mister Hughes—"But Dad can't miss lunch! Can't they just keep going after—?"

Suddenly, the lock clicks, and Roy opens the door, looking utterly disheveled. He runs his fingers through his hair distractedly as he looks toward Mister Hughes—"What's going on?"

"We were all going to grab some lunch," he says quickly, waving a hand. "Nothing for you to worry about. Any progress? Will we be able to send these rascals home soon?" He ruffles Al's hair affectionately, and Ed finds himself grinning even as Al squeaks in surprise.  _ Mister Hughes seems like an awesome Dad. _

(Not quite as awesome as their own Dad, of course, because  _ their _ Dad is the smartest person in the world.)

Roy's gaze shifts down to Ed and Al, and the smile he gives them seems genuine, if a little unsure. "Your father's making some good progress. It's really amazing—I'm not even sure  _ I _ could activate the array you used. You're really geniuses, aren't you?"

Ed feels his chest puff out, even as Al's face reddens and Winry laughs. "That's what Mom says!"

(And, of course, Mom is always right.)

Roy smiles at them for another moment before turning to talk to Mister Hughes again—"Go ahead—we'll eat when we're finished. Hohenheim seems pretty optimistic—we might be able to fix this by tonight, if we're lucky."

Al makes a pleased sound next to him, but Ed knows this means he doesn't have much time to figure out what's happened. He wants to know for himself, of course, but it's also for Mom, because that was their original goal, right?  _ See the future to show Mom that everything will turn out okay. _ And this bizarre trip to the future has been interesting— _ fun, _ even, now that Winry and Dad are here—but they still don't know what's happened and what he can tell Mom to make her happy again.

(If only Dad would tell them when he comes home—that, definitely, will make her feel better.)

* * *

It's on their way to the diner that he comes up with a plan.

There's a phone box, big and red, on the side of the road, down a quiet side street right before they arrive at the restaurant. He wouldn't have recognized it for what it was had he not remembered the single public phone in Resembool, down at the train station. He barely acknowledges this one, only realizing what it is after they are already several steps past.

But all that matters is that he  _ does, _ and he knows he can use it to get answers…or at least, to talk to Mom. (He'll have to sneak Al out later so he can talk to her, too.)

They've arrived at the restaurant, now, and a nice lady with long red hair seats them near the back. Ed glances at the menu she gave him—it's large and paper and different than the adults', which he finds strange but doesn't question—before quickly deciding to order a bowl of spaghetti.

"Is there a bathroom?" he asks Mrs. Hughes, wiggling in his seat. "I gotta go potty…"

Al sighs resignedly, rolling his eyes. Ed sticks his tongue out at him before turning back to the Hugheses, trying to look as innocent as possible. Mom can usually tell when he's acting, but since these people don't know him as well—

Mister Hughes laughs at their antics and stands up. "I'll take you—we'll be back in a second, guys, okay?"

" _ Nooo, _ " he whines, because Mister Hughes will  _ never _ let him go use the phone box, and this is probably the only chance he'll have. "I can go by myself! I'm grown-up enough!"

Mister Hughes raises an eyebrow, looking at him levelly for a second. Ed does his best to look like he really,  _ really _ has to go potty (the annoyance at being escorted is entirely real), because if he doesn't do this, he'll never find out what they came here to learn.

_ (He only wants to make Mom smile. _ And he's sure that this is the way to do it.)

"If you're sure," Mister Hughes says finally, sitting back down and looking amused. "It's over there—just make sure you don't go into the ladies' room by accident, all right?"

He points to the opposite side of the restaurant, and Ed nods quickly, jumping off his seat and hurrying in that direction.

(So focused on the daring task he's about to complete, he misses the way both Al and Winry watch him go, confusion on their faces.)

Once he's far enough away, he sneaks toward the front door, hoping none of them will see…and once he gets there, he shoves his way through and takes off down the street.

His heart is going fast and his palms are all sweaty because  _ he can barely believe he actually did that. _ Thinking up a ridiculous plan out of nowhere and actually carrying it out are two very different things, and he realizes that this is the most excited he's been in a very long time.

(This feeling is wonderful, of not being told what to do, of not having an adult to always stand next to him, of being  _ entirely on his own. _ )

He finds the phone box quickly, nearly shaking as he lets himself inside and shuts the door. He has to stand on his tip-toes to reach, but he puts in the pocket change Mom gave him for the week, pulls down the phone, and reaches for the numbers.

He has to hesitate, though, because he knows his house number, but didn't Mrs. Hughes say something about "long-distance"? He knows he's heard that before—something about when he and Al and Winry got to go to East City with Uncle Rockbell for a few days.

That was only a couple of months ago. They had been eager to call Mom then, and Uncle Rockbell had laughed, told them to put in three numbers before their house's.

_ Eight…five…one… _

It's all rushing through his mind as his finger spins around the dial quickly. He's sure that was it. Eight for how many people are in his family and the Rockbells'; five for how old he is; one for Mom is number one!

He sits back on his heels as soon as he finishes dialing, his gut squirming and his breath short and his mind full of  _ I'm about to talk to Mom— _

But nothing happens, not even a  _ ring-ring _ like every other time he's made a call. There's only a  _ clang _ as his coins come out of the machine, and a nice lady's voice says, "I'm sorry, the number you dialed is not available. Please hang up and try again."

He slowly reaches up for his money, absently pushes the receiver down, holds the phone limply in his right hand. He's not sure what's going on. He knows he got the number right, because it's one of the first things he and Al had to memorize in case they got lost. But why isn't it working?

He tries it again to be sure, but the results are the same—the coins clanging loudly in the silence of the booth, and the lady's voice telling him he can't talk to Mom.

(Even the machine is turning against him. He doesn't think this is a bad thing to do… _ he only wants to hear her voice again.) _

But for some reason, he can't call home—he can't talk to his mother like he so desperately needs to. But he's not just going to give up; he painstakingly dials in the 8-5-1 again, and then puts in what he hopes is Winry's phone.

(He's only had to call it a few times, but he remembers lots of things really well, so hopefully this is right, too.)

He's scared as he waits for the line to connect,  _ terrified  _ that it won't work—but the machine doesn't spit his coins back out, and the lady's voice is silent, and he heaves a huge sigh of relief as a loud ringing comes from the earpiece. Finally,  _ something's _ right.

"Rockbell Automail—Pinako speaking."

He jumps harshly, because he recognizes the voice as Granny's but it's so  _ different. _ Her voice has always been rough—Mom says it's because she's smoked her pipe since Uncle Rockbell was little—but now it's even more gravelly.

(The fact that it's definitely Granny, though—the fact that he's actually going to get some answers—a thrill of excitement burns through his stomach, and he can't help but smile widely.)

"Hello?" Granny says, a bit louder this time, and Ed realizes he hasn't responded.

"Granny?"

She doesn't say anything for several seconds; Ed feels the grin slip off his face as he scuffs his shoe on the ground. "Granny, you okay?"

"Ed? Is that you?"

(He can't tell what she's feeling, not over the phone. It's not the cheerful Granny he sees on occasion, nor the stern Granny that she is most of the time, nor the angry Granny she becomes when she's ready to tell them off.)

"Yeah," he says, suddenly unsure and scared.  _ Is she gonna be mad? _ "I just wanted to call, 'cause I miss you and Mom and Auntie and Uncle Rockbell…only, our number didn't work."

(It's strange, he thinks, that Granny is the one who picked up the phone. Usually, she's too busy working on automail, and Auntie Rockbell answers.)

"Well…I know your house's phone has been having some trouble lately. The calls don't always go through." Granny's voice still sounds weird to Ed. He doesn't know what's wrong.

"Are you okay?" he asks after several seconds. Her explanation makes sense—especially since Central is so far away—but something is definitely off. "You sound sad."

(It's not the right word, but it's the best he can come up with right now.)

"Hm? No, I'm fine, Ed. It's just a surprise to hear from you, is all. Did Mister Hughes let you use his phone?"

_ How does she know where we're staying? _ But he realizes almost immediately—Roy must have found a way to call Mom, too, when he called Winry.

"I'm in a phone box," he says honestly, because Granny's the best at figuring out a lie. "So is Mom okay? I wanted to talk to her."

There's a second's pause before Granny replies—"Yes, she's fine, dear. But I'm afraid she's out at the market right now with Winry's parents."

"Oh…" His shoulders slump, because he had  _ really _ been looking forward to talking with her. But if she's in town, there's not anything to do about it. "Tell her me and Al love her, 'kay? And Roy says they can fix us by tonight, so she'll have  _ her  _ us back really soon."

(He wonders at the fact that Granny called him "dear," because even if the old ladies in town like to call him and Al that—and pinch their cheeks, much to his chagrin—Granny never has. Maybe it's just because she's older, and you're supposed to say stuff like that when you get old.)

"I'll tell her. She loves you two as well, all right?" Her voice cracks strangely in the middle, but Ed doesn't have time to ask why. "Now, you'd better get back to your brother and Winry. Don't want to worry them, right?"

"Oh! Dad's here too!" he says suddenly, brightening up, because surely that will reassure her that this will be fixed soon. "He's helping Roy with the array! But do you know why he's in Central? No one'll tell us."

"Your father?" She sounds surprised— _ very _ surprised—and it's several seconds before she replies—"He—he just needed to talk to a couple of alchemists in Central, I think." She trails off for a moment before continuing—"Could you tell him something for me? I need to speak with him as soon as he's back in town."

"Okay!" Of  _ course _ Dad is in Central for alchemy—he's the best alchemist in the world, after all. Why had he ever questioned it?

"Well, I'll talk to you later, I suppose," Granny says, and her voice is back to that same strange tone that Ed can't quite identify. "Don't leave the Hugheses waiting, all right?"

"Okay! Love you, Granny!"

There's a slight pause on the other end before she replies; he can hear a smile in her voice—"I love you too, Ed."

Ed's grinning brightly as he steps out of the phone box. Even if he couldn’t talk to Mom, he still talked to Granny, and she said everything is okay. And Granny never lies— _ hates _ it when people lie—so he's excited to get back to Al and tell him the good news—

But as he looks up and down the street, he realizes that he has no idea which way will take him back to the restaurant.

He's always been bad at knowing where he is—Mom's laughed with him about it, saying he inherited that from her, while Al and Dad always seem to know where to go. Even after Dad left, he's hardly ever gotten lost, because he's lived in Resembool all his life.

But Central is big and new and scary, and both ends of the street look exactly the same, and he doesn't have any idea of where to go.

He does his best not to panic as he looks down both ends of the street, nearly deciding to just pick one and hope he finds his way back. But then he sees the lady with the red hair from the restaurant, standing only a few feet away. He breathes a huge sigh of relief and starts to walk toward her, because she had been really nice to him and Al when they sat down, and he's sure that she'll know her way back.

But she only stands there, a strange cross of surprise and satisfaction on her face, and says—"So you really are the pipsqueak, aren't you?"

He bristles on instinct, standing on his toes to try and look taller. "Shut up! I'm not little!"

(Mom always says not to say  _ shut up, _ because it's not nice and he could hurt people's feelings. But, on the other hand, he really,  _ really _ doesn't like the smile that's spreading over her face.)

"Oh, this is  _ too _ perfect!" she crows, throwing her hands into the air and walking toward him. (He takes several steps back.) "How old are you? Three? Four?"

"I'm  _ five, _ " he says loudly, holding up that many fingers to prove his point. "Go away. I don't like you!"

"Nah, you wouldn’t, would you?" The smile on her face is growing ever-wider, and he's backed up against a building now, and  _ is she going to eat me or hurt me or— _

This little adventure has turned from exciting to terrifying in the blink of an eye, and he wishes more than anything that Mom or Dad or even Mister Hughes was here to save him—but the only people on the street are him and the scary lady, and all he can do is stare with big eyes as she steps closer and closer—

"Leave him alone, Envy."

The voice is loud and commanding and totally unexpected; both Ed and the girl (Envy? That's a weird name) turn as a pretty lady with long black hair walks quickly toward them.

"Aw, you  _ always _ spoil the fun," Envy says, her face falling as her arms go limp at her sides. "C'mon, you're so  _ boring… _ "

"Shoo," the new lady says, waving a hand dismissively. (Her fingers are long and kind of pointy-looking. Maybe that's what girls do in Central. Ed will never understand them.) "Go, or I'll call the military."

Envy sticks out her tongue at the both of them before running down the road, soon turning out of sight. "Are you all right, sweetie?" The nice lady squats down to talk to him, her eyebrows pulled down in concern. She's very tall, and she's wearing lots of clothes for the middle of the summer—her dress goes all the way up to her neck and all the way down to her toes.

"Yeah, thanks, lady," he says brightly, because he's not sure what would have happened if that Envy person hadn't stopped. (This is a stranger, but she saved him, so he can trust her, right? But just to be sure—) "What's your name?"

She laughs—it's different than Mom's or Mrs. Hughes', but he can't put his finger on why—and says, "I'm Solaris. And what's yours, young man?"

He stands up a little straighter—someone  _ else _ realizes that he's almost a grown-up! "I'm Ed."

"All right, Ed, we'd better get you back to your parents." She stands up, offering him her hand and looking up and down the street. "Do you know where they are?"

"Uh…we were at a restaurant," he says, not sure how much that will help. "That Envy girl was working there."

(He still gets shivers thinking about the smile on her face, but Solaris is here now, and she'll protect him until he finds his way back to Al and Winry and the Hugheses. He doesn't have to worry.)

"I think I know what you're talking about," she says, nodding. "They have excellent spaghetti there. Have you had it?"

They continue talking as she leads him down the street, turning and walking toward the restaurant. She's mostly asking questions about his family, what they're like, what's happening in his life right now. "Mom's awesome!" he's saying, grinning up at Solaris as they continue walking. "I love her a lot—Al too—and we miss her, but everyone says we'll get to go home soon!"

"Hm? Does she not live in Central?"

"Nope, we live in Resembool. We got stuck here for a while, but it'll be okay!"

(He's still not sure whether the array he and Al activated will get them in trouble, so even though he trusts Solaris, he doesn't tell her about that part. It's almost the truth, anyway, so it's not really a lie, right?)

(Talking to Solaris is surprisingly easy. It's not as if he's shy—he's the exact opposite, really—but somehow, talking to this complete stranger doesn't seem odd to him at all.)

"That's interesting…well, I hope you find your way home soon." (Something weird flashes through her eyes as he looks up at her, but he has no idea what it means.) "Your mother's a nice lady, then?"

"She's the best!" He tugs on her hand for emphasis as he looks around, finally spotting the restaurant he had been at. "There is it! Thanks Solaris, I gotta go back—"

But several things happen at the same time, in such quick succession that Ed can barely keep up; Solaris' grip on his hand tightens, painfully so; the door to the restaurant slams open, and Mister Hughes runs out, looking worried; a flash of red hair from around the corner makes Ed turn, and he's sure he sees Envy there before she is obscured by crackling red light—

"Ed! What are you doing out here?" Mister Hughes catches sight of him and quickly walks toward them. (Ed sees his eyes flash mistrustfully toward Solaris before he focuses on Ed again.) "We were so worried—"

He can only stare up at him, though, because what can he say? Mister Hughes will be upset if he tells the truth, because he shouldn't have gone outside—but he doesn't want to lie—

Before he can try to answer, though, someone steps out from where Envy had been—someone Ed has never seen before. He has long, dark green hair and he's wearing the weirdest outfit Ed has ever seen— 

Mister Hughes turns toward this newcomer and says several very naughty words, pulling a small knife from nowhere and sending it flying toward him. The new man screams as it lands in his forehead; Ed doesn't know much about human anatomy, but he's pretty sure that isn't a good place to get hurt.

"Ed, get over here!" Mister Hughes says, and his voice is loud and scared and more commanding than Ed has ever heard it. "It's not safe—"

He tries to run forward, because even if he trusts Solaris he trusts Mister Hughes more. The green-haired man is pulling the knife out of his head and saying bad things, turning toward Mister Hughes—

But Solaris hasn't loosened her grip on his hand, and she twists his wrist painfully to keep him in place. She's leaning down toward him, now, and as he struggles, looks up, he sees Envy's horrifying grin on her face. He tugs desperately against her grasp, yelling for Mister Hughes, for Dad, for Al—

But her next words, whispered in his ear over Mister Hughes' continued shouts and the other man's enraged screams, stop him dead, stop the  _ world _ dead, because they  _ can't _ be right, she  _ has _ to be lying—

"Your Mom's the best, huh? Too bad she's dead."


	7. memento mori

_ r e w i n d _

_ . _

_ . _

_ . _

_ . _

Trisha can't breathe; she can't move; she can only sit and stare numbly at the wall, in the near-exact position Sara left her, her mind overloaded with such horror that it feels like she's simply shut down.

Ed.  _ Her Edward. _

Her little toddler who had been so offended at Al's birth that he wouldn't even  _ look _ at his brother for days, and continued to mistrust him until Van talked sense into him—

Her strong little boy she thought she brought up right, because for at least three years now Ed has been alarmingly attached to his brother and violently protective of everyone he loves—

She thought she knew her baby boy, thought for sure that whatever he grew up to be, he'd be a good person, protective and capable and  _ caring. _ But she must have done something wrong; she must have messed up somewhere, because what else could possess him to join the ranks of the  _ State Alchemists  _ at the age of fifteen?

_ ( _ She has visions of her little boy fighting a war, bleeding and killing and  _ dying _ ...Even if it's absurd, and surely he has only joined recently, that is all she can see, and she can't stand it.)

She's sure he's qualified for the position; that isn't at all the issue, if he's even half as good at alchemy as his father. But even Van had refused to join the military, had not wanted to tether himself to such a violent establishment.

So  _ why _ ?  _ Why _ would he ever apply?  _ Why _ would they ever accept him? And, most importantly,  _ why did she ever allow it? _

Her mind has shut down and yet it's running at full speed, because she doesn't know whether to be horrified with herself or with her son and  _ everything is wrong, _ because the thought of her Edward (flashes of a toddler laughing, building block towers, concentrating so hard on his transmutations) becoming a State Alchemist is just so  _ absurd  _ that she…

But she held the watch in her hands; she heard the admission from his own mouth. There's no way to excuse this.

She needs answers.

And suddenly, another,  _ new _ , thought enters her mind—but instead of reassuring her,  _ distracting _ her, it only horrifies her further.

_ What about Alphonse? _

She doesn't think she can believe the armor is for "alchemy training," not anymore; it's far too bulky, far too empty whenever it moves. He can't possibly be big enough to fill it.

(And the more urgent thought—if Edward is in the military and Alphonse is not, where does that leave  _ her _ boys?)

She's moving, she realizes; she's on her feet and walking slowly toward her boys' room as if being controlled by some sadistic puppeteer. She can't, but she  _ needs  _ to; she can't betray her sons' trust like this, but she can't live in ignorance any longer.

This is it, and there's no going back.

Standing in the doorway as the dim hall light does its best to illuminate their room, she can only stare at her boys for a moment. Edward is curled into a ball under his covers, his face contorted and tearstained. The nightmares, at least, seem to have spared him tonight.

The cot they set up for Alphonse is empty, with sheets tucked neatly back; instead, her younger son is folded into himself against the wall nearest Ed. The eye sockets are dark; he is clearly asleep.

A surge of huge, irrational terror floods her, because the armor is just so  _ wrong _ , and as hard as she might try, she cannot reconcile it with the image of her baby boy. Her Al is sweet and kind, gentle to a fault; he once came running inside, crying because he had stepped on a butterfly. But this armor—it's enormous and dangerous and  _ wrong, _ and she can't take this anymore. She needs to see her son's face, needs to know that this, at least, is all right.

(Because if even Alphonse is ruined, has been destroyed by her parenting or his brother's influence or his own choices, she's not sure she could stand it.)

So instead of stepping toward Edward she approaches Alphonse, her breath short and the world spinning because  _ she'll surely be damned for this _ but maybe it doesn't matter anymore. And she knows that this is the catalyst that will change everything, change her  _ world,  _ so she simply reaches forward and carefully pulls the helmet from his head.

She isn't entirely sure what she's expecting to see. Perhaps he has been terribly deformed, forever scarred by some horrific accident;  _ perhaps, _ whispers that last, desperate corner of her mind,  _ he really is just going through training. _

But whatever she's expecting, whatever her crumbling mind is prepared to see, this is not it…

Because the armor is empty.

This isn't right—can't be right! Hasn't he said he can't remove it? Haven't they both insisted that he leave the helmet on because  _ Teacher will kill us if he takes it off _ and  _ she's scary when she's mad so we don't want to risk it  _ and _ that's okay, isn't it Mom? _

But wasn't she thinking mere seconds ago that maybe they aren't being tutored, that maybe this Teacher doesn't really exist? That maybe there is a more sinister reason for Al to hide his face?

She is ready to carefully replace the helmet and hunt down her son—wherever he is—and demand answers, but then she feels a gentle pressure on her arm. There’s the rattling she's come to associate with the armor, and Al's terrified, quiet voice fills the room—

"Mom…"

The helmet crashes to the floor; her gaze flashes around the room, searching for her son, searching for his voice, searching  _ (begging) _ for an explanation—

But the only movement other than the steady rise and fall of Edward's blankets is her own heaving chest, so she turns back to the armor  _ (she's terrified of it) _ —

And it's  _ moving, _ now, reaching slowly for the helmet at its feet and fixing it back upon its head. And then it stands up, and Trisha screams.

It freezes mid-crouch, the eye sockets (they're empty they've always been empty  _ where is her baby boy _ ) glowing in the darkness like twin pits of Hell. She wants to run, to grab Edward and just  _ run _ because there is a disembodied suit of armor in his bedroom and God knows what it will do to them—

Whatever this is, it isn't  _ isn't ISN'T  _ Alphonse, and she needs to get as far away from it as she can—

"Mom…?"

There's that voice again, and it does sound  _ so much _ like Al's should (it wavers and dips and sobs and she would feel guilty except  _ this isn't her son) _ . But it isn't him - can't be him! Whatever this is—some freak accident of alchemy, some monster that only wants to bring pain by pretending to be her little boy— 

"What are you?" Her voice is biting and accusatory, and she's standing protectively in front of Edward now. He is mercifully still asleep—won't realize just yet that  _ this isn't his brother— _ but he's defenseless against whatever kind of monster this is.

It recoils, stumbling into the wall as its hands spring forward, palms out pleadingly as the head shakes in denial. "Mom, it's—it's me, it's Al—"

"No, you're not!" Whatever this is, it is not her son—can't possibly be her baby boy, because her instincts over the past two days were right.  _ Al can't be this big _ and  _ the armor is too wrong _ and _ something is wrong with her sons _ and she knows what it is now. But instead of feeling relieved, instead of feeling inspired to fix it, she only feels rage and terror and emptiness, because this is worse than she has ever imagined and  _ Alphonse is missing _ and  _ this armor has taken his place _ and how will Edward take the news?

"Mom, please—"

The hands fall; the armor leans forward; the voice is desperate and imploring. Trisha only deepens her scowl (she's not strong and she knows this, but she'll do anything to protect her remaining son) and snarls,

"Get out. Don't you even  _ think _ about hurting Edward, or I'll tear you apart."

(She means every word.)

The armor is silent and unmoving for several seconds, but she doesn't back down, doesn't avert her gaze, until it slumps and dashes out of the room. (She pretends not to hear the hopeless sob that sounds  _ too much _ like Alphonse.) The footsteps recede down the stairs, and she hears the front door slam open and then shut.

And then, finally, blessed silence.

A sob escapes her own lips, now, loud and hysterical, because if that isn't Alphonse then where is her son? Edward clearly believes that the armor is his brother, but she cannot fathom why—has he been tricked or driven mad or is he in on it, does he know the truth behind the lies?

She finds that she's fallen to the ground, now, barely realizing what is happening as she gently, absentmindedly, runs her fingers through Edward's hair. Ed. Her little boy. Her son who is definitely who he says he is, has no mask or helmet to shield his face.

_ (he's a dog of the military) _

She needs to make this better, but she doesn't know where to start. The exhaustion and the horror have caught up with her, now, and she's drowning with no rescue in sight.

How can she possibly fix this?

She doesn't realize she's crying until Edward sits up sleepily, rubbing something off his face. (His own tears from the night before or hers? She supposes it doesn't matter.) "Mom? What's wrong?"

His voice catches and his face falls, because surely he thinks all that has happened in the past several hours is his fault. (She hasn't known her fifteen-year-old Ed for very long, but she's seen enough to know he's inherited both hers and his father's guilt complexes. It kills her to see it on his face.) But he can't be further from the truth; in no way is any of this his fault. They just need to get this resolved so he can have his brother back.

"Where's Al?" he tries again after several seconds of silence. He sounds more curious than worried as he apparently notices the absence of the armor, though he glances at her with apprehension in his eyes as he continues, "He getting you water or something?"

She flinches harshly, and Ed doesn't miss it; his eyes focus on her again, and his left hand grasps her arm tightly. "Mom, really, are you okay?"

She's not, and they both know it.  _ (This will tear him apart.) _ "The—the armor, Edward." She grasps both his shoulders in her hands (she notices that the right seems  _ off, _ but now is not the time) and looks him straight in the eye. "That's not your brother."

The blank surprise on his face is not at all what she is expecting. "'Course it's Al, Mom! What're you talking about—"

"It's not," she insists, gripping his arms tighter (why is his right so much stiffer than his left?) and willing him to understand. "I—I saw, inside the armor. There's nothing there, it's empty. Whoever— _ whatever _ —that is, it's not Al."

His mouth falls open and all the color drains from his face at once; his eyes only search her face for a moment, as if begging her to say she's lying, it isn't true, because it  _ has _ to be his brother—

But his response, a croak barely audible from his trembling lips, surprises her again. "You—you took his helmet off?"

"Yes," she says quickly, because that really isn't the important part of this conversation, is it? "And it was empty but it  _ moved _ and—"

She realizes that she is shaking, and Edward is shaking, and that strange clicking noise that is usually drowned out by the armor is filling her mind until she can barely think. "What is that noise?" she demands of him, and more tears fall down her cheeks as her grip on Edward tightens. "Enough of this.  _ What is going on? _ "

Edward's face is the color of the sheets: a sickly white that offsets the horror in his eyes. She can't ignore his right arm anymore; she can't stand the clicking; she releases her son, wrapping her arms around her head and curling into himself.

(She wants to scream out all her anguish and frustration, but her voice seems to have failed her at last.)

"Mom—Mom, listen to me." Edward's voice shakes terribly, and as he tilts her head up  _ (with his left hand, _ she notices), tears are falling from his own eyes. She can't stand to see her son in such distress, but she can't seem to move to comfort him. ( _ Useless) _

"You have to believe me, okay? I swear to you—I swear on my  _ life _ that it's Al. It's—it's complicated—we were going to tell you in the morning—"

"Tell me  _ what?" _ She makes a grab for his right arm again, but he pulls it back like she's poisonous. "What have you not been telling me?"

His mouth contorts, down down down until the emotional agony on his face looks physically painful. His eyes look away as he replies, "Just…do you know where he went? We need—we need to find him, right away."

His words hold a desperation, and even if Trisha is not sure she believes his conviction, maybe finding the armor will prove it either way, once and for all. "He—he just left. I don't know where…"

He swears under his breath (and quickly sends a terrified glance toward her. Under any other circumstances, she would rebuke him, but now is not the time) before throwing on his boots and heading for the door. "We need to find him, Mom, come on—"

She is slower to get to her feet, because some irrational force that says  _ the armor is not your son _ is almost physically holding her back. But Edward  _ is _ her son, and she can't stand to see him in such pain—so she pulls herself up, quickly retrieves shoes and a sweater from her bedroom, and follows him out the door.

She used to think Resembool at night was soothing—quiet and lonely, but comforting at the same time. As a teenager, she spent hours on the front stoop, simply staring up at the stars.

But tonight is so very different. Edward has a tight grip on her hand  _ (always his left) _ and is running out across the lawn, shouting his brother's name to the heavens.

"ALPHONSE! Where are you?"

There is no answer; as they stop to listen, Trisha cannot even hear the armor clanking as it moves. She's not sure how she's supposed to feel about this, but Ed's face is steadily draining of the little color it had left. After a few seconds he veers to the side, toward the river.

_ Of course. _ Her Al always goes down here when he's upset, when Ed talks without thinking or someone laughs at him in school. She wants to encourage Ed that surely this is where he'll be, because the panic is clear on his face now, but he's yelling to the night—

"Al, don't you dare—you idiot, stay out of the water—"

But when they pass through the line of trees, as Trisha looks around wildly for any sign of the armor, she realizes that he has never been here.

There is little light to go by—the moon is full but half-obscured by lingering clouds—but she does not see the armor; she doesn't see any footprints, doesn't see any signs at all that he has passed through here.

(And she wonders why Ed is so desperate about the water, but there are much more pressing matters at hand. Maybe she'll ask him later.)

Ed swears again and takes off back the way they came; Trisha can only watch as the panic settles more firmly on his face. Resembool may not have many inhabitants, but it's still large, and the armor— _ Al _ —could be anywhere by now—

"Would he—would he have gone to the Rockbells'?" she asks tentatively, quietly, because if she really has screwed up this badly  _ (if that's Al and she threatened him, denied him as her son) _ then Edward has every right to be furious. But he is nothing of the sort—he only stares in the direction of that little yellow house for a moment before slowly shaking his head.

"He wouldn't want to bother them, especially if they're asleep."

She has no idea where else Alphonse might have run, where he might have taken refuge after she was so hateful. But Edward's eyes turn west, toward town, and the pain so clear on his face only deepens as he realizes.

"I think…I think I know where he is."

And before she can ask, before he explains any more, he has tightened his grip on her hand and taken off toward town.

Trisha has no idea what is in this direction; it is well past midnight; all the shops are closed, and the merchants are asleep. The train station doesn't run at this hour; what else is there—

But then Ed veers south, up a dirt road she knows well, and her heart sinks as she realizes where they're headed—

_ The cemetery. _

But Al hasn't known anyone who's died!  _ (At least, _ whispers the malevolent corner of her mind,  ** _your _ ** _ Al hasn't.)  _ Urey's father died years before Alphonse was born, and no one else…

But there he is, curled into a ball on the ground near the gates, staring at an empty patch of grass.

Silent. Unmoving.

" _ Al!" _ Ed's voice cracks, and the relief is so strong in his tone that Trisha can barely stand it. "Al, we've been looking all over for you—"

The armor turns at the sound of his voice but does not stand. Now that Trisha knows, it's so  _ obvious _ that it's empty. The clanging of the joints is far too hollow; he's hunched over with his head on his knees like a child.

(He's only fourteen…)

"Brother," he acknowledges before glancing at Trisha; he averts his gaze quickly, looking terrified and ashamed, before continuing to Ed, "You should be asleep."

"Like hell I'm sleeping when you're out here on your own!" He releases Trisha's hand to rush forward, punching the shoulder of the armor. (It almost seems like he's avoiding looking at the empty plot, as if terrible things will happen if he does.) "Don't  _ ever _ do that again, I was so worried—I thought you were down at the river, thought maybe you'd—"

He laughs, hollowly, without humor. "Don't be stupid, Brother. I—I just had to go. Mom told me to leave." His voice is barely audible; his hands twist together and he stares at the ground as he continues, "I had to…"

"She didn't mean it," Ed says quickly, forcefully, glancing back at Trisha as if daring her to disagree. "'Course she didn't mean it—it's the middle of the night, nobody's been thinking straight this whole time we've been here—"

His voice cracks, though, and Al's head is shaking in denial even before he finishes speaking. "That's not true. You know that's not true."

Trisha's been conflicted, these past several minutes; she's been confused and terrified and entirely unsure of what is happening to her sons. But no one— _ no one— _ can fake the defeat in Alphonse's voice. That is so assuredly her son that her cruelty earlier feels like a stab to the gut. She's moving forward, now, putting a light hand on the metallic shoulder. (She doesn't wince at the contact—not this time.) She needs to make this right. "Alphonse, I know it's you...I'm so sorry."

Words have failed her, but she knows she needs to continue. Alphonse is one of the most important parts of her life, and he needs to know that. "I—I was scared, and confused, but I never should have—"

"You shouldn't be apologizing for anything!" His voice is suddenly loud and hysterical, and both Trisha and Edward jump. He stands up abruptly, tears the helmet from his shoulders, and bends over so Trisha can see inside. "I'm not even human! Look at me! I'm hardly your son if you can't even see my face!"

Edward opens his mouth, looking incredulous and outraged, but Trisha answers first.  _ Her son. Her baby boy.  _ "I don't care what you look like," she says, and her voice is so strong that she surprises even herself. "I don't care what you've done, or what's happened to you, or why your brother joined the military. All I care about is that you're  _ Alphonse, _ and I've known you since the moment you were born. All I want to do is  _ help. _ "

The three of them are quiet for several moments, and Trisha feels a chasm opening up between them as the silence stretches ever-longer. Why can't she understand? Her bravado is suddenly gone; whatever fire was pushing those words past her lips has suddenly gone out. "Please..."

The trance is broken; Al collapses to the ground with a sob, dropping the helmet beside him. Edward follows quickly after, leaning against his brother's arm and looking anywhere but his mother's eyes. (So much guilt. What could he possibly be blaming himself for?) Trisha hesitates before sitting down on the ground as well, facing them, a certain distance away because  _ her presence can only ever cause them pain. _

(What has she done wrong?)

(And, more importantly, how can she make it better?)

"I lied to you," Al says quietly, at length, and the way he chokes out the words shows so clearly how reluctant he is to say them. "Last night, when we were talking, I lied to you."

She's known this; she realized this hours ago, when the stories stopped lining up and she stopped being able to accept them. But she doesn't say this, doesn't say anything _ , _ because he's talking of his own accord now and surely that is easier on all three of them.

"Not everything," he says after a moment, quickly, as if trying to redeem himself. "Just...just some things."

He trails off, starts pulling at the grass next to him, and Trisha knows she must prompt him to get more information. "Which parts did you lie about, sweetie?" She's not angry—can't possibly be angry.

He laughs, but the sound is haunted and hollow and sends shivers down her spine. It's several seconds before he replies—

"The part about Dad coming home."

** _(Full stop.)_ **

She must have heard him wrong. She  _ must _ have, because if Van never came home—hadn't Al said he saved her life?

But— 

_ If Van never comes home, she dies,  _ and that's such an impossible concept. But haven't they both been acting like they haven't spent time with her in years? Hasn't she been thinking that they seem oddly attached to her?

"I—I didn't—" She's stumbling over her words, now, because her mind has processed it but is still refusing to accept the truth. She needs to respond, but there's nothing to say; her mind has betrayed her;  _ this can't possibly be right. _ "I get sick and then—and then I  _ die?" _

Both of her sons flinch harshly at her words, shattering any illusion of hope left within her. She is going to fail her boys in the worst way possible—she'll leave them utterly alone in a vast and terrifying world, with a father who never comes home and a mother who wasn't able to protect them...

(What kind of woman does that to her children?)

It's all there,  _ all  _ of it, and she doesn't realize tears are streaming down her face until Ed leans forward, carefully (he's treating her like something precious and fragile  _ why hasn't she seen this before), _ and wipes her cheek. "Mom, it wasn't your fault. It was an epidemic—by the time Auntie and Uncle Rockbell had a cure, you couldn't—"

He's crying as well, now, despite the way he's trying to stop her tears. Alphonse  _ (he can't cry,  _ she realizes. _ Suits of armor can't _ _ cry or eat or sleep and where in the world is his body if not here? _ ) is heaving empty sobs behind Ed, his ever-neutral face showing no emotion but his body language revealing everything.

Her sons are in such pain, and just as she feared, she is the cause of it.

She pulls Edward into a hug, tight and desperate because  _ maybe if I never let go everything will be okay. _ But that's a childish notion, and she knows it; she's supposed to be the adult, responsible and fearless and invincible. But clearly, that's not true either.

_ This is my fault. _

"Al told you, it's about a year from now," Ed mumbles into her shoulder, and though his voice is barely audible Trisha hears every word. "Maybe...I don't know if it'll work, but can you try and be strong? Maybe, if you don't, then everything will be okay.  _ We'll _ be okay."

And somehow, even though she wishes she could take his words to mean exactly what they seem to be— _ we'll be happy and we'll have a mother and even if Dad never comes home it'll be fine _ —she's not sure it's true. Something about the despair deep within his voice, Alphonse's body—and the fact that he became a State Alchemist.

(It wouldn't have been for the money. Van left them a sizable amount when he left, amassed through his centuries of travel, and it would be more than enough for the two of them to live on. But if not for that, then  _ why?) _

"What happened to you?" she asks in a hushed voice, stroking Edward's hair gently as her shoulder is stained with his tears. "It's not just that. I'm not important—Sara and Urey and Pinako would have taken care of you."

_ (But it was an epidemic, did they submit as well?  _ It's a horrifying thought, but not outside the realm of believability after all she has learned tonight.)

Edward seems beyond words, but Al answers in his stead; he's still staring at the patch of empty ground, and Trisha realizes with a horrifying jolt that this must be where she will be buried. _ _ "We...we couldn't take it. We read up on human transmutation and worked for years to try and bring you back."

She freezes, one hand wrapped protectively around Ed's back and the other at the crown of his head. "You didn't!" Even  _ she _ knows that human transmutation is illegal, is impossible, is a certain death sentence. She isn't worth that. She isn't worth her children's lives— 

But their silence is answer enough.

She wants to  _ scream _ at them, because why would they ever do anything so stupid? Such a thing is dangerous and lethal, and surely they knew it had never worked—but the despair so clear in their voices, in their bodies. She finds that she doesn't have the heart to yell. Instead, "How badly—what—what happened?" She only manages a croak, a dim whisper of her usual voice. How can she stop this? What could she possibly say to  _ her _ sons, to her small boys who, now, wouldn't consider such a thing, to convince them against it? To convince them that she is not worth the risk?

_ Nothing. _ She realizes immediately that nothing and no one will stop Edward when he sets his mind to something, and even if Al is much more gentle than his brother, he's just as determined. The wrongness is sickening, but nothing else makes sense in such a situation.

"It took—me," Al says very quietly, and he's curled into himself again, his arms around his knees as he stares somewhere several inches in front of Trisha. "Brother saved my life, got my soul back, but my body's still..."

_ Soul. Body.  _ She suddenly feels ill, terribly nauseous, like Edward's tightening grip is the one thing binding her to reality. His body was taken? That's why he's a hollow suit of armor? But _ how are they going to get it back? _

"That's—that's why I'm a State Alchemist," Ed mutters, speaking again even as his voice trembles dangerously. "The research opportunities, the restricted libraries in Central—it's the best chance we have to get his body back." Here, his voice catches, and he has to swallow shakily before he can continue, "Everyone says it's impossible, but Mustang and the others are helping us as much as they can."

_ Of course. _ She feels a sudden surge of pride in her sons, despite all she has been thinking to the contrary; Edward's joining the military was not an abandonment of his brother, as she had feared. He's doing everything he can to fix this, fix this tragedy that has clearly torn them apart. And even if she wishes so desperately that there is another way, she knows that there's not.  _ Her little boys, so strong... _

"Mustang?" she says, before she can help herself, because she does not recognize the name. 

"Commanding officer," he mutters, as if he'd rather not think about it. "He can be a bas—a jerk—sometimes," he corrects himself quickly, and Trisha finds that she almost wants to smile at his effort to keep his vocabulary clean, "but he gives us leads on people that might be able to help, books that might be useful. He's an alchemist himself." He pauses a moment, as if wondering whether to continue. "We were in his office when the transmutation activated. They'll keep us—them—safe, until this is all over."

There's a lull in the conversation, while Trisha tries to process this new  _ (damning) _ information. Even if this 'Mustang' clearly facilitated Edward's appointment to the military, she can't help but be thankful. If Edward trusts him to look after her younger set of sons, she does as well. (And that is an enormous weight off her shoulders, even as this huge burden is being loaded on.  _ They're together and they're safe, but look at what will happen to them if she fails. _ ) Clearly, Mustang cares for her sons on some level; she wouldn't doubt that he has been the father figure her boys were never allowed to have.

_ Van never comes home. _

It's like a punch to the gut, to know that he is gone, somewhere. Maybe dead (though, from what she understands, that would be an impressive feat), maybe lost, maybe simply abandoning them. She doesn't want to believe it, but what other options are there? What else could keep him away from his family during such a time?

"What—what happened with your father?" she asks in a hushed voice, almost afraid to bring it up, because she knows that both of them will react badly. And even though she is sure Van has a good reason for being away, leads a more complicated life than even she knows, her sons don't understand this about him. She's sure they hate him for it.

Sure enough, Edward lets slip a few choice words she pretends not to hear before muttering, "We tried to find him—called every single one of his contacts when you got sick. No one knew where he was. We haven't seen him since he left."

She says nothing to this, because what  _ can  _ she say? She can't explain his situation, as she doesn't quite understand it herself. Al may listen to reason, but she's sure Ed has already made up his mind.

And anyhow, things like  _ Alphonse is without a body _ and  _ in their future, I've been dead for nine years  _ and  _ Edward is still a member of the military _ are encroaching slowly upon her thoughts, and she knows she can't put them off much longer. She's trying so hard to be strong, because her sons are so broken before her that she can't possibly do anything else, but this isn't going to last forever.

Their lives have been thrown into the deepest pits of Hell, and it's all because she wasn't strong enough to survive.

Something else is nagging at her, pulling at her mind and asking for release, but she cannot focus on this because all she can think is that  _ her family is going to fall apart. _ She's sobbing, now, into Edward's hair—great, hysterical choking sobs that barely allow her breath.

_ I die. I die and leave Ed and Al alone, and in their desperation to bring me back they nearly lose their lives. _

"I'm not worth this," she's able to say, though she's not sure they can understand her when her voice is so distorted. "You shouldn't have—I'm not worth  _ anything _ !"

Edward's grip is tightening again—her left side is starting to feel pinched, pained, because of the force—and Alphonse pulls himself forward, trembling and filling the graveyard with the sound of the armor. (She barely has the presence of mind to be glad no one else is here.) "Of course you are, Mom—you're—you're the  _ best _ . I'd give  _ anything _ to have you back, in the future,even if it means I'll never get my body—"

"Don't you say that!" Her gaze snaps in his direction, though her vision is swimming terribly and  _ nothing is right anymore _ . "Don't you  _ ever _ say that! You don't need me, you've been fine all these years. But now you can't even—you're  _ miserable!" _

She can't continue; she only bows her head into Edward's hair in despair. How can they possibly think she is so important? She's never been anyone special; she's just been Trisha Elric, wife and mother and friend. She does her best to love and help and be kind and do everything she can for others, but surely that isn't irreplaceable.

Ed's grip shifts, as if he's trying to hold her tighter. But her left side is suddenly caught in something, and the pinching turns from uncomfortable to painful, and she lets out a gasp before she can stop herself. Edward lets go of her faster than she thinks possible, looking up at her with huge red-rimmed eyes and holding his right arm away from himself, as if denying that it's a part of him.

_ That arm.  _ She knows so much, now, knows the terrible things that have happened to her sons...but this one question still hasn't been answered. His arm is stiff and unyielding and painful; it doesn't make any sense.

(Of course, nothing makes sense right now.)

She needs to know but can't possibly ask, because the agony so clear on Edward's face ( _ so, so young—he shouldn't have to go through this) _ looks physically painful. How can she ask any more of him?

But in the end, she doesn't need to say anything. Ed holds her gaze for several more seconds, his golden eyes almost glowing eerily in the dim light, and then slowly pulls back his sleeve to his elbow.

She holds his gaze a moment longer before allowing her eyes to drift downward. And her breath catches in her throat when she sees:

His arm is gone, and automail has taken its place.

She realizes, almost immediately, what must have taken it.  _ That damned transmutation. _ Not only did it take Alphonse, it took Edward's arm; it was greedy and unforgiving and cruel. They're—they're only children, even now, and if he's already gained full control of the automail, they must have been so much younger when they lost everything.

"For Al's soul," he says, very quietly, and his eyes are shielded by his bangs now, as if he's too ashamed to meet her gaze. "I—I didn't have much time, couldn't think—Al was gone and my leg was gone and there was just  _ so much blood _ and..."

His head sinks lower in self-disgust, and she can see his hands balled into badly-shaking fists. Her mind registers the information about his leg  _ (a pang of horror—that must be automail as well),  _ but then Al commands her attention, is leaning forward, so she can see the inside of his neck. And though the light is dim, though there is only the faintest pre-dawn glow to see by, she can see the ghost of a small circle inscribed there. She realizes—that must be the array that is keeping him here.

He shifts a bit, and the light catches it just right, and then the circle looks  _ too red too red too red  _ and she realizes what truly happened.

_ Blood. The circle is drawn in blood. _

Her Edward was entirely on his own in that moment. Bleeding out from a missing leg and watching the aftermath of the transmutation, whatever it created... And yet all he could think was that he needed to save his brother. So he—he used his own blood, gave up his arm just to bring Al back to safety.

She can't— 

She feels irrational pride combating the all-consuming grief, because  _ her boys are so brave  _ but  _ how could they have possibly lived through that, how are they still the good people she knows and loves? _ They're—they're so strong, stronger than they should ever need to be.

She can think of nothing else to do but pull them both into an embrace—pull them into her arms and hope that, if only for this moment, they can feel safe and protected. They have been on their own for far too long; they've had to take care of each other and look after each other and sacrifice  _ so much _ that she can't even imagine the pain.

But she knows, immediately, that she change that. She can change the future—she can fix her sons' lives so they can grow up happy— 

_ (She won't die, so they won't be alone. She won't die, so they won't attempt to resurrect her. She won't die, so they won't lose everything. She won't die, so they won't have to tether themselves to the military.) _

She can do this. All she has to do is survive, right? Survive, knowing that her husband will never come home...but also knowing what is in store for her sons if she succumbs.

Right now, she's forcing herself to focus on her boys, to stay strong for them just as they have been strong for each other. But she knows her composure won't last forever.

Her sons, though, are always,  _ always, _ more important. And if they have been so brave for all these years, she can be brave as well; she can be the mother they remember and love.

(And only when she knows she is alone will she allow herself to break.)

.

.

.

.

_ f a s t f o r w a r d _

_ . _

_ . _

_ . _

_ . _

It isn't until Ed's been gone for almost fifteen minutes that Maes starts to think something's wrong.

He allowed him to go to the bathroom on his own; after all, the Ed  _ he _ knows is stubbornly independent, to the point of recklessness, and Maes knows  _ this _ Ed wouldn't have been happy if he insisted on accompanying him. But the bathroom isn't far at all; he can see the door from their table. He figures, this way, Ed's "I'm an adult" streak will be satisfied, and he can still make sure he's all right.

Of course, after a while, he starts to worry.

"Is Brother okay?" Al asks, looking worriedly toward the bathroom door. (He hasn't touched his lunch.) "Why's he taking so long?"

Winry looks concerned as well, but she glances toward the front door instead. "Mister Hughes, would you mind checking on him?"

He nods and stands up immediately, because something isn't right here and he  _ refuses _ to put those little boys in more danger than they already are. (Something is pulling at the back of his mind, something like Ed's near-miss at the abandoned laboratory, and it does nothing to quell his unease.)

He almost isn't surprised when he finds the bathroom empty; he only turns around quickly, glancing around for the hostess (she isn't there) before asking an elderly couple at the nearest table—"Have you seen a little blond boy go by here? Blue shirt and khaki shorts..."

"Didn't we, dear?" The woman turns to her husband for confirmation before continuing, "He walked right out the front door. I thought of stopping him, but—"

Maes swears under his breath and takes off, calling a hasty "thanks" over his shoulder as he slams the front door open. How could he have been so  _ stupid? _ He had even been thinking of the time Ed and Al had sneaked off to the Fifth Laboratory. How had he not realized that  _ this _ Ed could pull something like that?

And whatever those things were that nearly killed them there—if they get their hands on  _ this _ Ed— 

He can't bear to entertain the thought. Ed will be  _ fine; _ he's just on some hare-brained "adventure," and Maes doubts monsters like those would attack a child in broad daylight—

He glances up and down the street, finally catching sight of the boy several feet away. There is a woman walking with him—a woman Maes does not recognize—but he sees no tattoo that marks her as one of  _ them. _

(Of course, the long dress covers her almost from head to toe...)

"Ed, what are you doing out here?" he yells, half-relieved, half-alarmed, because even if he can't know for sure, his gut is screaming that he shouldn't trust this woman. "We were so worried—"

He is ready to collect Ed from her quickly, head back into the relative safety of the restaurant, because  _ this isn't sitting right with him at all. _ Ed's eyes are enormous, staring back at him, and Maes can't tell if it's in surprise or shame or fear but he knows he can't take the chance—

But then a too-familiar man with long hair steps out from the alley to his left, and all Hell breaks loose.

He remembers screaming for Ed, screaming as loud as he can (to make sure he hears but also to attract bystanders, because he knows— _ hopes _ —they'll be less likely to hurt the boy if there are witnesses). He remembers embedding a throwing knife in the creature's skull and watching him pull it out; rage coats every inch of his face as red energy crackles around him—

He remembers hearing the restaurant door slam open behind him, but he barely has time to gesture to whoever it is to get back inside  _ (please not Gracia or Elysia or Al or Winry this is too dangerous _ he'll never forgive himself if they're hurt) as he drops a second knife from his sleeve. It's useless but it's better than nothing, and he eyes the creature warily, doing his best to seem as threatening as possible as it walks forward—

But then Edward screams, shrill and terrified and full of pain, and everything stops.

He turns desperately despite himself, because if Ed is hurt that is so much worse than any injury Maes could sustain.  _ (He's only a child.) _ The boy knows nothing of what is happening, and it needs to stay that way—it  _ needs _ to—and if that woman hurt him he swears to God—

But Ed is standing under his own power—the woman has even released his hand—and he does not look injured. But the way his face has turned a sickly shade of white, the way his eyes have grown impossibly wider, fills Maes with a different sort of dread that does nothing to calm his racing heart.

But he can't focus on this, can't rush to him and make sure he is all right, because something long and dark is hurtling toward him and he barely has time to jump out of the way before it pierces his heart. (His shoulder is stabbed, though; he gasps despite himself...and a voice that sounds  _ too much _ like Winry screams from behind him.)

"Give me one reason why we shouldn't kill you,  _ Mister Hughes," _ the monster says mockingly as his companion retracts her weapon. (Another grunt of pain, but he can't show weakness before enemies like these.) "Just one, c'mon—"

His face is twisted into some sort of sadistic grin, but Maes has eyes only for Ed. He's still frozen in place; it looks like he's not paying attention to his surroundings at all. That may be a small blessing, but there's still—"How about the fact that I haven't done anything to get myself killed?"

"You threw a knife at my head!" he says incredulously, as if this is a minor problem rather than a permanent solution. "What—"

"How about the fact that three powerful alchemists are on their way here right now?"

Maes swears under his breath, turning to look at Winry as he continues to clutch his shoulder. Her face is white as a sheet and her clenched fists are shaking violently, but she's standing her ground, glaring murderously at the creature feet away from her. ( _ She needs to be inside, safe, not challenging inhuman monsters who will kill her without a second thought—!) _

But he only stares blankly at her, one eyebrow raised, and asks, "Who the hell are you?" He doesn't look about to attack her—seems more surprised than anything—but Maes still opens his mouth to scream at her—

Before he can, though, she continues, her voice loud and brash to mask the tremors—"Roy Mustang, Alex Armstrong, and Van Hohenheim are going to be here any minute now, so unless you want to fight off—"

The monster looks vaguely irritated at the mention of the first two... (He mutters something that sounds like "stupid sacrifices," which sends up warning flags in Maes' mind but he has no time to remember why.) But at the mention of Edward's father, he actually looks surprised, glancing over to the woman before interrupting Winry—"Damn, that old man's still around?"

"Yes," Maes says loudly, with more bravado than he thought possible with his steadily draining energy, "and he's one of the best alchemists in the country, so—"

"Aah, this might be troublesome," he sighs, suddenly relaxing before throwing his hands behind his neck and rolling his eyes. "Hohenheim...who would've thought?"

"Hughes? Hughes! What's going on?"

Roy's loud, worried voice carries from down the street; to Maes' immense relief, he's running toward them with Hohenheim and Armstrong not far behind, ignition glove poised to snap. The monster turns and swears under his breath when he sees—even through his blurring vision, even though he has to use every ounce of his strength to stay upright, Maes can see the irritation plain on his face.

"Damn, Lust—"

"Yes, we should probably report this," the woman— _ Lust, what a bizarre name _ —says, walking forward and looking remarkably calm. (Maes takes several steps back, stands protectively in front of Winry, because he'll be damned if they hurt her without going through him first.) "And if Flame is coming as well... We can kill him some other time." She gestures vaguely to Maes as she makes her way toward the alley her partner had appeared from.

Maes would try to stop them, would demand to know exactly what's going on and  _ why they're so interested in Ed,  _ but his world is spinning and he can barely stand upright.  _ He has to make sure Ed is okay. _ He hasn't moved from his place several feet away, still looks like nothing less than the apocalypse has swept through, and terror clenches at Maes' heart as he tries to move forward. But his legs give out; he is forced to his knees as he struggles to stay conscious.

"Ed? Edward! Are you all right?"

The boy does not answer, but Winry rushes toward him, dropping to her knees and grasping the boy's shoulders as Hohenheim and the others finally arrive. Roy looks as if he wants to follow Lust and the green-haired man into the alley, but then he catches sight of the blood seeping through Maes' fingers and changes direction. He falls to his knees as well, prying Maes' fingers away from his shoulder and swearing when he sees the damage.

"Hughes! Can you hear me? What happened?  _ Who were those people?" _

Armstrong is hovering, looking worried but unable to help; Hohenheim hurries forward, dropping down beside Roy and inspecting the wound. He slowly brings his hands together as if to transmute, but as far as Maes knows, there isn't any alchemy that can—

"M'fine…" he mutters, even as he sways dangerously and Roy is forced to catch him. "Ed…there's something wrong…"

He nods unsteadily toward the boy, who still hasn't said anything, hasn't moved or responded to Winry at all. ( _ If those monsters hurt him— _ Maes swears on his  _ life _ he'll tear them apart.) "Edward?" Hohenheim says carefully, sending one last glance toward Maes' shoulder before standing and taking a few steps toward his son. "Edward, are you all right?"

His eyes flash at the sound of his father's voice, but it is several more seconds before the boy finally speaks. His voice is very quiet; Maes has to strain to hear—"Where's Mom?"

Hohenheim looks unable to reply, but Winry answers in his stead. (Her voice cracks dangerously.) "She's—she's at home in Resembool, Ed. You'll see her soon, once your dad figures out the array—"

"So why can't I talk to her on the phone?" His tone is suddenly accusatory, and his voice is loud; Maes can see his face twisted in fury and anguish, even from this distance. "And why'd Solaris say she's  _ dead?" _

The pause is too long, and every one of them knows it. Maes scrambles for an explanation, for a way to talk themselves out of this, but the horror growing on Edward's face tells him it's far too late for that.

_ (Stupid kid. _ Why couldn't he be like any normal five year old and not go digging into something like this?)

"That's what you lied about," Ed accuses, his voice shrill and terrified; he chokes on the words, pushing Winry away as she tries to pull him toward her. "Mom doesn't love us enough so she  _ died _ —"

"That's not true!" Winry says immediately, desperately, and Maes can see the tears as they form in her eyes. "Your mom loves you so much—she didn't want to—"

"You're lying! You're all lying!" He's walking backwards, now, glaring with all the hatred and contempt Maes has rarely seen even in the Ed  _ he _ knows. (Hohenheim and Winry both flinch harshly.) "You—"

Hohenheim's shoulders are rigid, as if moving them will send the world crashing down. "Edward, listen to me—"

But instead of calming down, instead of listening to reason, Ed's gaze snaps to his father, and his face contorts even more. "It's your fault!" he yells, and before anyone can stop him, he's run forward, slamming right into his father and pounding his little fists on Hohenheim's legs. "Why didn't you fix Mom—she says you're the best alchemist in the  _ world— _ "

Nobody says anything; what  _ can _ they say? This little boy is five years old, has just found out that his mother is dead...and the trust he's always had in his father has just been crushed beyond repair.

(He's only a boy. Edward Elric has only ever been a boy. This grief so clear on his face now has never dimmed—as the years have gone by, he's only gotten better at hiding it.)

(Maes truly wonders how he does it, how he makes his way through every damned day without falling apart.)

"Edward," Hohenheim says slowly, and his hands are shaking as he crouches down to grab Edward's wrists. "Edward, listen to me _ — _ "

" _ Why didn't you fix her?" _

"Because _ — _ because I didn't come home in time." The words are forced, choked out, and Maes sees where this lie is going even before he continues, "I didn't get the message until it was too late _ — _ by the time I came home, she was already..."

As heart-wrenching as the story sounds, it is so much better than the truth, and Maes can only hope that Edward believes it. To believe that your mother died, but you lived on, relatively happy with your father and brother and friends...

(If he doesn't buy it, demands the absolute truth...Maes isn't sure he'll be able to lie to him anymore.)

(But he can't even imagine this little boy finding out how deeply his life will be thrown into the pits of Hell.)

"But…" The sight of Edward crying—even a five-year-old Edward—is so jarring that Maes feels physically uncomfortable, beyond the searing pain in his shoulder. The boy has never cried in the years that Maes has known him; he's always insisted that Al  _ can't _ cry, so he isn't allowed to either.

But now, there is nothing but undiluted agony streaming down the boy's face; he has no reason to hold it in.

He's far too young for this.

"You can stop it," Hohenheim says quietly, glancing over his shoulder toward the door to make sure nobody else has emerged. "You need to start looking for me as soon as you get home. Everything will be okay, I promise, but you need to stop crying. Alphonse is going to come out soon, and you don't want him to know about this, do you?"

Ed says something in reply—his voice is still angry, hateful, but not as poisonous as it had been—but Maes cannot focus. The blood still spilling from his shoulder is making him lightheaded, and he lists dangerously to the side as his vision blurs. Roy is still holding onto him, is yelling, calling Hohenheim over— 

But before he arrives, the world has turned to black.

* * *

_ I'm still alive. _

His first thought when he awakens surprises even himself. He can feel sheets covering him, can feel the soft pillow of his own bed beneath his head, and it astonishes him that he feels anything at all. Even if that Lust woman hadn't hit any of his vital organs, he had lost an astonishing amount of blood before Roy and the others arrived.

_ But he's alive.  _ That means everything more important than him has already been taken care of; Edward has calmed down; Alphonse has accepted whatever lie they made up to appease him…

As he opens his eyes, struggles to focus without his glasses, he thinks that maybe,  _ just maybe, _ this might turn out all right.

_ "Daddy!" _

Elysia's voice is the first thing he hears, and he lets out a small  _ oomph _ as she throws herself onto his stomach and hugs him around the middle. "Daddy, you're okay! Mister Ho fixed you up just like he said and everything's okay now!"

He blinks a couple of times, staring down at her. "Mister Ho fixed me?" He realizes suddenly that his shoulder feels perfectly fine. So there  _ is _ a branch of alchemy that deals in medicine? But wouldn't the Elrics have looked into it already? "Is he here? What happened?"

"You were sleeping but Mister Ho did alchemy and fixed you, but you didn't wake up so Mister Muscles had to carry you home," she says, her eyes wide and terrified as she looks up at him. "Mama said you were just sleeping because you've been working hard but I was scared and—"

"Well, Mama was right," he says, smiling and ruffling her hair. "Daddy's okay now. I just have lots of stuff to do at work, so I decided to take a nap after I found Ed. I'm sorry I worried you, hon."

She pouts, crossing her arms and looking utterly adorable. "As long as you don't do it again!"

He laughs and pulls her into a hug just as the door to the bedroom opens. Winry walks in; her eyes light up when she sees him awake. "Mister Hughes! How are you feeling?" She rushes to his side, setting down the glass of water she was carrying. "You've been out for  _ hours _ , we've been so worried—don't you  _ ever _ do that again—"

"I was just promising Elysia I wouldn't," he says, grinning a bit at her. "So Hohenheim fixed me up, then? Is he still around?"

"Yeah, he's in the kitchen with Colonel Mustang and Armstrong, finishing up that circle. They said they'd be able to reverse it by tonight."

Her tone is suddenly different, even as she's clearly trying to stay cheerful. Something flashes through her eyes, something Maes can only read as pain. He sits up, adjusting Elysia on his lap so he can reach out for Winry's shoulder. "Hey, is everything all right?"

"Ed isn't talking to anyone. He's locked himself in Elysia's room and won't let anyone in," she says quietly, the cheer in her face gone entirely now. "Even Al. He's really worried, but I don't know what to tell him. Ed promised not to tell him anything about…about Auntie Trisha, but he's starting to ask questions."

"Well, we'll just have to clear everything up with both of them, now won't we?" he says, smiling even has his own stomach plummets. "C'mon, let's go talk to Ed. What does Hohenheim know about the circle?"

"I don't really know. Mrs. Hughes and I were trying to talk to Ed, but…"

"Right. Well, let's go," he says, doing his best to look optimistic as he sets Elysia on the floor, standing up. The pain—or, at least, lightheadedness—that he is expecting does not come; whatever kind of alchemy Hohenheim did…

"What did Hohenheim do to heal me?" he asks Winry as they make their way to the door. This is impressive; why haven't hospitals used this kind of transmutation to heal wounds?

"Um, I don't know much about alchemy," she says, shrugging after a moment. "But there was some red light and it was healed."

_ Red light? _ The light of a transmutation is blue; he knows that much.

_ But that green-haired man healed himself with red light… _

He changes course, abruptly turning from the hall to the kitchen.  _ Red light. _ Hohenheim has made it clear he cares about his sons, would never dream of harming them. But that monster had been doing his damnedest to— 

_ This isn't making any sense. _

He knocks on the door before letting himself in, and the four of them look up as he walks in the door. "Mister Hughes!" Al says, his face lighting up. (It looks as though he's been crying—Maes feels a stab of guilt for messing up this badly. If he hadn't let Ed run off…) "You're okay!"

"Yep," he says, smiling at the boy before turning to Hohenheim. "Your dad fixed me right up, but I was just wondering exactly what he did." He can feel his gaze hardening, silent demanding answers. Obviously, he and those monsters are connected in some way, but how—? "I'd really appreciate it if I could have a quick word with him."

Roy, Armstrong and Winry send him sharp, questioning glances, but Hohenheim only sighs and stands up. "I'll be right back. We're nearly done," he adds as explanation to Maes as the two of them shut the kitchen door, walking into the sitting room. "As soon as we can get through to Edward, we'll be able to reverse it."

"Right," he says, because that's surely very important, but isn't this as well? He needs to know what he's up against. If even the Elrics'  _ father _ is a threat to them… "Well, Winry was saying you healed me with a red transmutation. But that green-haired man healed himself with red light too." He stares hard into Hohenheim's eyes, searching for any trace of a lie. "I was wondering what that was about, because his wound should have been fatal, and mine definitely should not have healed that fast."

Hohenheim inhales deeply, shutting his eyes as he pinches the bridge of his nose. "I suppose you'd have to be intelligent, to be of such a high rank," he says after a moment, falling into a nearby chair. "That's a very long story, but I can assure you that those—people—who attacked you are in no way friends of mine."

"So what are they?" That's the answer he was hoping to hear—he didn't deny their existence—but it still doesn't add up. "How is any of this possible? I thought alchemy didn't specialize in medicine."

"It doesn't. How I fixed your shoulder, how that man healed himself—it's not  _ medicine, _ per se." He sighs again, glancing at Maes before gesturing to the other armchair. "You need to know this, especially if they're targeting my sons, as Alex says. This is so much deeper than you think."

He trails off for several seconds, and Maes fidgets, waiting for him to go on. This is important, and he knows it; this is about the incident at the abandoned laboratory—the Philosopher's Stone that is made of human souls—those creatures who seem so interested in the boys he's come to think of as surrogate sons.

But now that he's getting answers, he's almost terrified to hear them.  _ What is so horrible that even this brilliant alchemist is worried? _

"They're called Homunculi," Hohenheim says finally, raising his head to look Maes in the eye. "Created humans. I haven't been idle since I left Resembool twelve years ago. I've been tracking them, predicting their movements, trying to stop their plans."

"Their plans? Plans for  _ what? _ "

He is silent for several seconds longer before taking a deep breath and asking, very quietly, "What do you know about Philosopher's Stones?"

_ One. _

_ Two. _

"I know enough," he says, his tone hard. He wonders how such a thing could be related to these Homunculi, what they could possibly want with it…and he doesn't like the only answer his mind can produce. "Your sons were researching that for years, thought it could restore their bodies, but then they found the truth. They've sworn off it since then."

He nods slowly. "That's good, I'd expect as much from them." He sighs like an old man, his eyes flitting around the room as if trying to find a distraction. "The Homunculi, they're created around a Stone. It's their core, their very existence…and they have terrible plans for this country. Edward and Alphonse are players, now that they've committed the taboo. That's why those two were so interested in finding them."

" _ What?"  _ Plans for the country involving those boys? But they're only children—what could those monsters possibly want—"So how do we stop them?"

(The fact that a Stone is their lifeblood—that makes sense, how the man was able to heal himself.  _ Immortality. _ By throwing that knife, Maes had caused the death of not the Homunculus, but one of the innocent souls within him. Suddenly, he feels sick.)

"That's what I'm working on," Hohenheim says, running a hand through his bangs distractedly. "I have a counter-circle set up, but that won't stop him permanently—I—I'm not sure…"

He looks so lost, so tired and  _ alone _ in this moment that Maes finds himself putting a comforting hand on his arm. "Whatever you need help with, the military will help. I work in Investigations, we'll get this sorted out—"

Hohenheim shakes his head sharply, his eyes flashing. "He has eyes and ears everywhere. If I'm right, the Fuhrer himself cannot be trusted."

_ What? _

"Well—we'll keep it away from the higher-ups, then," he says, recovering as quickly as he can.  _ Even Bradley? _ "Roy's a colonel, we can get through this, right? And I know Armstrong's sister is a general in the north—they're a good family."

Even as his mind runs through the possibilities, though, the terror flooding him comes seeping out like acid. This—this can't be right, with the country in such danger. But hasn't he been thinking lately that things have seemed  _ off? _ That there are so many rebellions occurring, all around the edges of the country; he's done his best to chalk it up to the nature of a militaristic nation, but he's not sure…

(He'll have to check that, later. But in the meantime, a much lesser question is still pulling at his mind.)

"So if the Homunculi are able to heal themselves with red light using a Stone, then how did you heal  _ me _ ?"

The man flinches, harshly, and Maes almost regrets asking. "That's the long story that I mentioned earlier," he says, his gaze on the ground again and hands twisted together. "The original Homunculus, he and I are…blood brothers, I suppose you could say. A very long time ago, he tricked me into helping with a transmutation, and I became the way I am now."

The realization hits him hard, sends him physically reeling back, and he stares at Hohenheim in horror as the truth reveals itself to him. "You're—you're  _ one _ of them?"

"In a manner of speaking," he mutters, as if he doesn't want Maes to hear. "I realize you have no reason to trust a monster like me, but if he isn't stopped…"

The sentence is left hanging, but Maes does not need him to finish.  _ If the Homunculi aren't stopped, if they're trying to transmute the entire country—  _

It's answered for him, even before he even has a chance to consider. There isn't even an option of what he will do—what is required of him is spelled out plainly.

"Just tell me what I need to do."


	8. redux

The hours pass in a blur.

Trisha doesn't know when the sun rose; she doesn't know when the three of them collected themselves enough to make it back to the house. She doesn’t know how she's going to be able to handle this new,  _ horrifying _ information—

(Doesn't know how Edward and Alphonse have lived with it for the past nine years)

—and how in the  _ world _ is she supposed to continue on as if she isn't going to die?

Edward has let his sleeve fall back into place, and Alphonse has secured his helmet back onto his body, but nothing is the same. She can hear clearly, now, how Al's knees and feet clank loudly as he crosses the wooden floors, and the noise sounds far too hollow; she can see how Edward—who has, every day of his life, been right-handed—does every action with his left, so as to feel what he is holding— 

Everything makes  _ too much  _ sense, now, and she wonders through her shock and grief how she could have possibly missed these things before.

None of them have gotten much sleep ( _ can Al even sleep at all _ every time she's been in their room at night he's been awake), but she doubts they will try to get any now, not after what has just transpired between them.

Al trails into the kitchen and pulls out some leftover food to reheat, and something twinges, deep inside Trisha. She crosses the room quickly, putting a hand on his arm to stop his movements. "Don't worry about this—I'll cook. You just sit down, all right?"

Al makes a noise, as if he wants to object—but Ed punches his back with his automail hand (the sound echoes through the kitchen, strange and foreign and more terrifying than it should be) and mumbles something about talking in the other room for a moment. Alphonse reluctantly complies.

This leaves Trisha alone in the kitchen for a few precious seconds, and she means to boil the potatoes but instead finds herself collapsing against the counter. She's alone at last, but still she is unable to come to terms with it all. The automail, the—the soul binding…

(Somewhere, vaguely, she remembers Pinako saying that the surgery is the most painful there is. And Edward has two limbs made of steel, has two ports and two surgeries and there must have been  _ so much blood—) _

The water is boiling merrily now, as if to spite her, but she pays it no heed as she continues to stare at nothing, gently banging her head into the cabinet. Pinako's even said that she refuses to attach automail to anyone under seventeen. She says they won't be able to handle it…

(Her sons have always defied all odds, but in this case, she'd give anything for them to be average.)

They're back in the room, now, and Edward is collapsed in a kitchen chair while Al carefully approaches her, collecting the potato chunks and dropping them into the water. The food leaves marks on his gloves, but he pays no notice to them as he picks up the spoon and begins to stir.

_ This is so wrong. _

"You can't eat," she says, and it's not so much a question as a statement of something she'd give anything to take away. "Because—because you don't have your proper body."

Edward shifts behind them but says nothing; Alphonse does not reply for several seconds—"That's right."

"And you can't sleep, either, can you?" Her voice is rising in volume, but she finds that she does not care as she looks up into what should be his eyes. "That body doesn't let you sleep?"

He ducks his head, breaking their eye contact to stare intently at the potatoes. "Or—or smell, or feel…"

She chokes out something that could be a sob or a scream or a bout of mad, hysterical laughter.  _ Her little boy. _ The one who always eats  _ so much, _ always is able to shovel down more food than his brother—the one who loves to take naps, sleeps late whenever possible and looks forward to dreams—the one who goes out of his way to give people hugs, snuggles close to her just to feel the warmth and comfort of another human being…

(This is  _ so wrong.) _

"Really, it's—it's okay," he says, but his voice cracks, and Trisha doesn't believe him for a second.  _ (Her _ Al always tries to make everyone else happy, putting others before himself.) "I've gotten used to it, and we're always looking, you know?"

"I'm gonna fix it, Mom." Edward's voice sounds from behind them, and both Trisha and Al turn to see something like determination on his face. (And if it's mixed with madness…well, who can blame him?) "I'm not gonna stop looking until Al is back to normal."

And looking at the fire in his eyes, in his clenched and badly-shaking hands…she doesn't doubt him for a second.

* * *

Breakfast, as it is, passes uneventfully. Edward and Trisha eat in silence while Alphonse looks on… 

(She can hardly stand it, but she knows it will only hurt him worse if she lets on. So she is silent.)

And when they're finished, as they bring their dishes to the sink and drop them in soapy water, Edward turns to his brother; his face is suddenly, barely, full of hope.

"You know, Al, there is that one thing. If you're both careful..."

Al jerks and stares at his brother before his gaze wanders to Trisha. He is silent for several seconds before his voice emanates from the armor—

"If there was anything to risk it for, I think…I think this would be it."

(And if pain flashes through Edward's eyes and releases itself in a badly-stifled sob, Trisha and Alphonse both pretend not to notice.)

* * *

They're in the living room, now, and Alphonse has taken off his helmet, sitting down on the couch. Edward is hovering nearby, his face a mask of pain and terror and hope all at once.

"We think—well, we've never tried, but…" Al heaves a deep breath that supplies him no oxygen and continues, "We think, if someone touches my blood seal, I'll be able to feel it."

She can only stare at him for a moment, not quite understanding. "You—if you don't want to, it's okay," Al continues quickly. "I don't know what it'll do, if the oils in your skin will ruin the circle or..." He trails off, and Edward flinches harshly. But then he continues, bravado that isn't quite convincing in his voice, "I'm willing to risk it. I—I don't think I can handle this any longer."

He falls silent, but Trisha understands; she walks forward, slowly, carefully, and looks inside the armor to find that small circle inscribed in her son's blood. She reaches out (_she can't smear the circle that'll kill him—_she doesn't know anything about alchemy but she knows this much) and hesitates for a moment longer before gently touching her fingers to the edge.

* * *

The sob that emanates from her son is the most heartbreaking thing that she has ever heard, even after this long night of despair.

(All she can think is that she can't let it end this way.)

.

.

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.

"Edward, you know that if you don't let me in, I can open the door myself. Please, we need to talk."

He does his best to ignore his father's voice on the other side of the barricaded door (the alchemy isn't perfect—his hands shook terribly drawing the circle, and he was far too distracted while activating it—but even so, it gets the job done) as he buries his face more insistently into one of Elysia's pillows. He can't talk to Dad right now; he  _ can't, _ because— 

_ Mom is dead. _ Mom isn't alive anymore, and nothing is making any sense.

He wants to blame Dad; he wants to blame the Rockbells; he wants to blame the God Mom mentions on occasion but in whom he has never truly believed…

(He thinks that would change— _ forever _ —if only God could bring Mom back.)

He doesn't answer his father, and both of them are quiet for several seconds before the older man sighs. There is a loud crackling of red alchemy ( _ why is it red _ all his and Al's transmutations are blue) and then his father is there, shutting the reformed door behind him.

Ed does his best to ignore him, but he is only five years old and the other is not. Right now, all he needs is comfort in any form he can get it. So he swipes furiously at the tears on his face even as more fall to replace them, and then he reluctantly looks up at his father as he sits down.

(He's crying as well, and it scares Edward more than he's willing to admit. Dad is strong and brave and the smartest person ever— _ or so he thought— _ but if even  _ he _ —)

"We've worked out the counter-circle," he says, looking lost for a second before carefully sitting on the bed, a good distance away from Ed. "We'll be able to send you—"

"I don't want to go back!" he blurts out, and even if he doesn't completely mean it—because he misses Mom more than he can describe and all he wants is to see her again—it's too late to take it back. But when they finally return, he'll just have to wait until she—she— 

(He sees his father's hand reaching tentatively forward, as if to comfort him, and he buries his face back into the pillow.)

"It doesn't have to happen," Dad says, and there is a moment's pause before he feels his father's large hand on his back.  _ (It's shaking, just like him.) _ "When you activated that array, you created an alternate timeline..." He sighs. "It's very complicated, and I'm sure you don't care about the details. All you need to know is that Trisha—Mom—doesn't have to die. You can save her."

He falls silent and does not speak again, and Edward finally lifts his head, turning to look at his father. His mind is full of this new information— _ we can save Mom—everything will be okay— _ if Dad is telling the truth ( _ why wouldn't he _ he's Dad, of course he wouldn't lie), then—

"How do we do it?" he asks after several seconds. "What do we do?"

"You just need to find me, back at home," Dad says, and he heaves a sigh of relief for some reason that Ed does not understand. "In my study—the desk—in one of the drawers should be a little book full of names and telephone numbers. Just call them and ask if they've seen me—can you do that?"

Ed nods immediately, burning the information into his mind. Call Dad's friends—he'll have to be  _ somewhere,  _ right?

And once they find Dad, he'll come home because Mom was  _ right _ —he isn't gone forever, and he just had to go away for a little while because he had important adult things to do.

_ Everything will be okay. We just need to find Dad. _

He makes a sudden noise that could either be a laugh or a sob and lets go of the pillow at last. He flings himself instead toward his father, wrapping his arms around him and letting his tears stain his shoulder. (And if Dad is clearly surprised, takes several seconds to embrace him back, Ed does not care.)

_ We can fix it. _ And suddenly, nothing else matters anymore.

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Ed finds himself in the study some time that afternoon.

The three of them haven't spoken much, not since Mom touched Al's blood seal. (Ed has never dared to try it, to risk his brother's life for such fleeting comfort, because if he was wrong, and the array smeared and Al was gone, he didn't think he'd be able to live with himself.)

(But Al is capable of making his own decisions, and he was right—if there's anything worth the risk, it's feeling his mother's touch one last time.)

But he knows this can't go on forever. Especially after last night…he needs to look at the circle, analyze Hohenheim's notes (he hates that man  _ so goddamn much _ ) because he doesn't deserve to stay here. He deserves exactly what he's doled out for himself—an eternity in Hell, trying to fix the wrongs he has committed.

If this experience has taught him anything, it's that his own life is forfeit if it means returning Alphonse's.

So he finally ventures into the study, where the array is still drawn out in chalk and papers are strewn haphazardly around the outside.

(He and Al used to spend hours in here…)

He crouches down to collect the papers into something like a neat pile, glancing at the circle and taking care not to step inside of it. He's never seen one quite like it before, but then, he's never heard of alchemy doing anything like this, either.

Just like that bastard—design an impossible transmutation that puts them into a situation like this.

He thinks he recognizes several of the runes, though, and even if he has no idea how they coordinate to make the transmutation work, it's a start. So he settles down on the floor (not the desk—_never_ the desk) with the sheets and sheets of notes and begins to read.

* * *

Al and Mom apparently find their way upstairs sometime later. Whether they’re looking for him or they decide to look at the array themselves, Ed does not know.

(All he knows, at the moment, is that he needs to reverse this circle. No matter how much he wants to stay here,  _ forever, _ he knows there's another pair of Elric brothers who deserves to spend these last precious months with their mother.)

But this array is complex—impossibly complex—and he's barely made any progress on drawing out the counter-circle when his brother and mother find him. "Edward?" His mom walks in, skirting the edges of the circle as she comes up next to him. "What are you doing?"

"We can't stay here," he mumbles to his notes, unable to look up at her. "And this is really, really advanced stuff—Mustang won't be able to reverse it himself. We shouldn't be here— _ your _ sons deserve to be here."

Al makes a sort of noise that might have been in agreement (or might have been in defeat), sitting down next to him and pulling a smaller copy of the array toward him. Their mom is silent for a moment, before she reaches forward and pushes the notes down and away. "I was talking with Al about this, when we were downstairs." She sighs. "Everyone always says you two are like night and day, but really, you're so similar that it's starting to scare me."

Al's helmet clanks as he looks up, and Edward finally tears his gaze from the notes. "You  _ are _ my sons," she says, and Ed watches the tears as they well in her eyes. "You will always be my sons—I don't care what has happened, or what will happen, or any of that. No matter what happens, I will always love you."

(And finally, Ed feels something inside him snap.)

He pulls her into a hug, tight and desperate and more free than he has before—after all, there's no need to hide his automail anymore. She reciprocates without a second thought, petting his hair in the way he forgot he loved and whispering that it's all going to be okay, because they're both such strong boys who have grown up so well and she is so proud of them and  _ don't you ever forget that, all right? No matter how hard things get in the future. _

"You—you don't hate me for what I did? To you and—and to Al..."

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, and he hears Al make a noise of dissent from behind him (he's told Ed over and over again that he doesn't resent him for what happened, but the terror in the back of his mind has never truly disappeared), but before he can say anything, Mom has responded, louder this time, so Al can hear as well. "Sweetie, how could I ever hate you for that? You were young and alone and I—I failed you...there's nothing for me to be upset about. You've done your best since the very beginning. Nobody can be angry with you for that."

He's heard this from so many people, so many of his friends who have tried to convince him that he's not the horrible person he's sure he is...but it never meant as much, coming from them. Granny and Winry didn't understand, not really. 

But now, hearing it spoken by the one person he never thought he'd see again...

He thinks that maybe,  _ maybe, _ he might finally be able to let go of some of the guilt.

They are quiet, for a time; Al has not moved from beside Ed, and Mom does not loosen her grip, only stroking his hair in silence as he refuses to admit that there are tears leaking from his eyes. He thinks he should say something, but he has no idea of what.

"It's funny," Mom says suddenly, clearly attempting to make her voice cheery. He is broken from his thoughts, looking up at her in confusion, waiting for her to go on. "When you were younger, you always said you'd never let your hair grow long, because it'd look like a  _ girl's _ . But now..." She yanks gently at his braid, laughing just a bit. "When was the last time you cut it, hmm?"

Al laughs as well, and Ed thinks there's more humor there than he's heard in the last two days. It's such a stupid thing, but maybe that's what they need right now. After the weight of last night's conversation, after all the lies and... "You always said you thought it'd look good long," he answers, smiling a bit. "Also, I got lazy."

Mom and Al laugh outright at this, and Ed allows his smile to grow wider as they fall again into silence. This is how it should be. The three of them, sitting together as a family, without any worries or fears...he thinks this is  _ (what he'd give anything to have forever) _ where true happiness lies.

(And, if only for a moment, he allows himself to believe that this is reality.)

But all at once, there is a great red light surrounding them, so different from the transmutations he knows. Lost in his thoughts, Ed realizes  _ too late _ that it's the same light that the Homunculus Greed used to regenerate in Dublith, and— 

Without a second thought, he pushes his mother away, harshly, to get her away from the effects of the transmutation, because he and Al can handle whatever this is but he refuses to put her in danger. (He won't let her die for a third time.) The trance they had found themselves in is shattered; Mom is yelling,  _ screaming _ for them, but the transmutation is only encapsulating him and Al; now that Mom is farther away from both of them, she is clearly not being affected.

(He realizes suddenly that the array that brought them here has—somehow—been reversed.)

Al seems to have realized as well, for he is yelling this to their mother; the terror on her face lessens only slightly, though, and her arms are reaching out toward both of them as the reaction intensifies. Ed knows he only has seconds before they are gone and she is lost to them forever— 

All at once, there are so many things he needs to say to her.  _ I love you _ and  _ don't worry, everything will be fine—  _ (Even thoughts of other things—the Rockbells, telling her to stop them from going to Ishval—)

But there is no time, and he can only reach back toward his mother as she grows ever-fainter, screaming for her like he has not in years, and refusing to blink as he watches her slowly fade from his sight— 

And then, finally, there is nothing but blackness.

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.

Al is upon him the moment he and Dad open the door.

"Brother are you okay what's wrong why wouldn't you let me in? I was so scared and Winry wouldn't tell me why you were sad and—"

Ed is nearly knocked over by the force of his brother's hug, only stabilizing himself by catching himself on Dad's legs. "I'm okay," he says quickly, because he can feel Al's tears staining his neck and he can't stand to see his little brother cry. "I just—just—"

He can't come up with a suitable lie to tell his brother, because he  _ knows _ Al can't find out about Mom  _ (he's the older brother he has to protect him) _ but he has no other explanation as to why he locked himself in Elysia's bedroom for three hours. But Dad jumps in, kneeling down next to them and patting Al gingerly on the shoulder. "Ed was in trouble, Al. He ran off at lunch, you remember that, right? We had to put him in—in time out, because he wasn't supposed to do that. And I went in to talk to him, to make sure he doesn't do it again."

Al looks up, glances between the two of them, and Ed does his best to look contrite. It's not a perfect story, but Dad is a very good liar. Hopefully Al believes it.

"Everything's fine now," he assures him at length, when Al still doesn't look convinced. "Really, Al, we just gotta get back to Mom and everything'll be okay again! Dad even said they got the circle done!"

"Yeah, that's what Mister Roy said!" Al said, his face lighting up at the change of subject. "He and Mister Armstrong are drawing it in the living room now—and Dad'll activate it, right?"

Ed does not know the answer, but their father nods, a small smile slipping onto his face. "That's right. I'll be able to send you home just as soon as you're ready to go."

Al's grin looks genuine even through his tears, and Ed relaxes, because that means he believes their story and everything will be okay. (Even if he hates lying to his brother, Ed can't even  _ imagine _ the look on his face if he found out that Mom is dead. He knows this is the only option.) "Hey, where's Winry? Gotta say good-bye, right?"

"She's in the kitchen with Mrs. Hughes," Al says brightly, pulling him that way by the hand. "They're making dinner for the—the  _ older _ us, for when they get back."

_ Everything will be okay.  _ Winry and the Hugheses are already making plans for when they get switched back, and Dad and the others wouldn't try the circle unless they're absolutely sure it'll work, right? Al won't be sad, because he and Dad fixed everything. Mom will be okay, and Al won't ever have to know.

When they enter the living room, Roy and Armstrong are nearly finished drawing out the circle in chalk on the wooden floor. "Hey, kid," Roy says, grinning over at Ed rather uncertainly. (Ed wonders vaguely why he almost seems unsure of how to talk to him, when he talks to his fellow adults just fine.) "You all right? We're about done, just want your dad to check it over."

Dad is already crouching down next to the circle (only a few feet across between the couch and the fireplace, but very complex. Ed can't hope to understand it), inspecting the runes and the lines. "Yes, this is right," he says after several seconds, nodding and standing up. "Edward, could you go get Winry and the Hugheses so we can finish this up?"

He nods quickly and rushes into the kitchen, allowing a huge grin to form on his face. "Winry! Mister Hughes!" he yells, causing them all to turn to him in alarm.

"Ed?" Winry runs toward him, her eyes wide in surprise. "Ed, is everything okay?"

"Yeah!" he says, and he doesn't think he's smiled so wide since they came here. "Dad says we just gotta find him, back home, and everything'll be okay! And they just finished the array!"

"That's great!" Mr. Hughes says, walking over from his place by the stove and ruffling Ed's hair. "You guys are gonna be swapping back, then?"

"Yup!" He laughs, because that's what Mom likes to do to his hair too ( _ she'll be okay she has to be okay) _ and he'll be seeing her very soon. "Just wanna say goodbye."

Winry laughs (but Ed can suddenly see tears in her eyes...he doesn't understand) and takes him by the hand, leading him back out toward the living room. "Well, I bet you want to get back home, huh?"

He does, because he misses everyone  _ so much _ and he can't wait to see Mom again. But he can't stand to see Winry sad, and even if this Winry is much older than him, that doesn't mean they're not friends. So he stops walking, pulls her to the side before they reach the living room, and asks, "Winry, why're you sad?"

She only stares at him for a moment before laughing—the sound's not happy, though, and Ed only furrows his brow further and tilts his head. "Really, Winry, what's wrong? I don't like it when you're sad..."

She laughs again, louder and more hysterical than before as she drops to her knees to be at his eye level. But she says nothing for several seconds; she only looks down at him for a moment as tears leak from her eyes. Just before Ed asks again, she says, "So you—you can save Auntie Trisha?"

"That's what Dad said," he replies, looking at her in confusion. "We just gotta find him when we get home, and then he'll be able to fix her."

"That's good," she says, and it's obvious she's attempting a smile. "So...could you tell my parents something for me? Please?"

"Sure?"

"Can you tell them—can you please ask them not to go to Ishval?"

_ Ishval?  _ Ed isn't sure where that is...doesn't know why Winry doesn't want them to go. But her eyes are wide and spilling more and more tears down her cheeks—he can't possibly say no to her. "Sure?"

"Or—or even, because they'll say no," she continues quickly, her hands balling into fists, "just tell them that when the military asks them to leave, they need to leave."

_ Why would the military be involved? _ Ed still doesn't understand what she means, but if that's what Winry wants, that's what he'll tell Auntie and Uncle Rockbell. "Yeah, I'll tell them. But why—?"

Winry doesn't answer; she only pulls him into a tight hug. "Hey, Winry, it'll be okay. I'll tell them not to go to—to Ishval, and everything will be okay, just like Mom!"

"Yeah, it will..." she agrees slowly. When she pulls away from the hug, she is smiling despite her tears. "Let's get going, all right? I'm sure Al's wondering where we disappeared to."

Soon enough, they're in the living room with everyone else. Winry's still wiping her eyes, but her tears have slowed; Al looks worried about her but does not have time to ask. All the adults are standing back several feet from the circle, staring at them as if drinking in their appearances. Elysia is in her mother's arms, staring at Ed and Winry.

"Are you ready to go?" Dad asks quietly after several seconds of silence, and Ed nods, giving Winry's hand one last squeeze before stepping carefully into the circle. He doesn't understand it, so he doesn't have to worry about accidentally activating it...but he still steps gingerly around the chalk, so as not to smear anything.

Winry is hugging Al, now, maybe even tighter than she was hugging him; Ed doesn't understand, but he thinks he knows better than to ask. Nobody says anything, but Maes ruffles Al's hair on his way toward the circle; Mister Armstrong is crying; and Roy has a strange look on his face that Ed doesn't understand. Nobody says anything until Al has stepped inside the circle as well, and Dad steps forward, looking at both of them for confirmation to activate the array.

"Take care of that brother of yours, all right, Ed?" Roy says suddenly, and Ed can only stare at him before nodding slowly. He doesn't know Roy very well; he's barely talked to him, especially compared to all the others. But his face is deadly serious, and that's what everyone else has always told him, too. So the answer comes easily—

"I will, don't worry, Mister Roy."

He snorts loudly, and Mister Hughes laughs outright, but Ed has no time to ask why. Winry and Mrs. Hughes are waving, and Al is nodding to Dad; the array lights up a bright red all around them.

Within seconds, everyone else is gone.

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.

When the blinding red light finally fades and Trisha blinks the stars from her eyes, her boys are gone.

Just like they were two days ago.

Then, she had been utterly terrified, knowing nothing of what was going on and thinking only of how to get them back. Now, she knows exactly what has happened, and that it will only be a matter of seconds before her younger set of sons returns to her.

But instead of the relief she should be feeling—because all of this is finally,  _ finally _ over—she only feels terribly empty. Her conversation with Ed and Al—the ones who are so broken that she didn't even know how to start fixing them—was cut short, and she didn’t have a chance to properly resolve it before they were ripped away.

There are so many things she wishes she could have told them, because even if she assured Edward that she could never blame him for any of this, and Alphonse knows she loves him no matter what he looks like, there is just so much left unsaid. She wants to tell Ed that he's grown so much, that surely he'll soon be taller than her and Alphonse. (And even if she's not sure it's true, she knows he needs to hear it.) She wants to tell Al that the armor isn't as frightening as he clearly believes it to be, that it's  _ him _ and that means it could never be anything but the kindest, gentlest thing in the world— 

She wants to tell them both that she believes in them, that she's sure they'll find an answer, that they will find peace and happiness in their lives before long. She wants to tell them over and over how much she loves them, how proud she is (because these things are so vast and indescribable that saying them once will never convey what she's trying to tell them) and how much everyone else loves them, too. After all, how could they not? Her boys may not be perfect, but they're clearly trying their hardest to be good.

She can't fault them for that, and she's sure that nobody else can, either.

The light fills the room again, a blood red that she recognizes easily as her husband's transmutations. (She only allows herself a moment to hope, because it's impossible and she knows that he is long gone.) She does not flinch away, does not step back. This array is not meant for her; it does not pose her any danger.

And after a few seconds, her Edward and Alphonse are there, fully conscious this time, looking around the room with wide, frightened eyes.

"Ed? Al?" she says softly, catching their attention immediately. Alphonse is the first to reach her, letting out a sob as he embraces her with all the power he possesses. Edward is not far behind, and though he is crying as well, his are not hysterical sobs like those wrenching themselves from Al's throat. But his grip is only tightening as she hugs them both back.

_ He knows. Alphonse does not. _

It is so clear to her, in these few seconds, that she is momentarily struck speechless. Edward is never this quiet. He's saying nothing, only gripping her dress like his life depends on it, like terrible things will happen if he lets go.

(He found out what might happen and kept it from his brother, did his best to protect Al in the only way he could. Here, now, she realizes that as much as her sons have grown over the years...they really haven't changed at all.)

"Are you guys all right?" she asks quietly, unwilling to break the silence but knowing the necessity of doing so. After a moment, Al nods into her chest. Ed doesn't move, doesn't say anything—but she thinks he will be as well.

"I missed you," Al mumbles, not looking up, his grip shaking a bit as he tries to hug her tighter. "They wouldn't let us call you and Winry wouldn't tell us anything, or Mister Roy or Mister Hughes or..." He dissolves into sobs again, unable to say anything else. She rubs his back, humming quietly, because she knows he will be okay once he calms down. He is upset, yes; of course he's upset; he was stranded in a strange place with people he didn't know for more than two days, and that is a lot to take in as a four-year-old boy.

But he is strong; she knows that, undeniably, now. He will be all right.

Edward makes a noise, as if he wants to say something but doesn't know how. She does not interrupt; after several seconds, he says, "We gotta find Dad, okay? He said we gotta—there's a book—"

This jars Trisha out of her own reeling, and she pauses her hand on Alphonse’s back. "Dad—Dad was there?" she asks carefully, barely daring to hope.  _ He's not dead?  _ But then why has he been away for so long? "In the future, you saw Dad?"

"Yeah," he replies readily, looking up at her at last. "He was—he had to talk to some alchemists in Central. But he said we gotta find someone who knows where he is so he'll come home."

She nods after a moment, her mind reeling, but she knows she can't let her sons know how much this has affected her.  _ (Why would he stay away for so long after everything that happened—why did he not come home for more than ten years?) _ "Well, let's start dinner, and then we'll look for his book, all right?" She smiles at them, hoping they don't see through the calm facade. Alphonse does not look ready to loosen his grip on her, so she hoists him into her arms (he's small, so much smaller than he will be— _ she cannot let that happen _ ), waits as Ed attaches himself to her skirt, and makes her way out of the study.

They'll be all right; she knows this because it must be so. She's always known that her boys are good people, brave and strong, and now, she knows it for sure. This experience—she will never forget it, she knows, but she can't let it ruin her.

If she grows weak, she knows exactly what will happen.

* * *

Alphonse is lying down upstairs—he is understandably exhausted, and while he was loath to detach himself from Trisha, she promised him that she would only be downstairs if he needed anything. After tucking him in (into the bed they made for his older self, never used) _ , _ he was asleep within seconds.

Now, downstairs, chopping salad and waiting for the pasta to boil, she feels a gentle tug at her skirt. She looks down to see Edward, his face downcast, and immediately puts down the knife. "What's wrong, honey?"

"In the future, I...I found out some stuff," he says, very quietly, so she can barely hear. She crouches down to talk to him better, putting a hand on his shoulder and causing him to look up. "I just wanted to find out what was gonna happen, because you're sad so much and I wanted you to be happy but—" his voice catches for a moment—"I messed it up."

_ That's why they activated the array? _ She realizes that she has not thought about how or why this happened, was too wrapped up in getting to know her older sons, but this makes sense—a frightening amount of sense, in fact. But that is not the current problem, and she can't dwell on it."You didn't mess up anything, Edward," she promises, smiling at him. "In fact, it's a good thing this happened, right? This way, we know what could happen, and now we just have to fix it."

His eyes widen and his mouth drops open a bit as he stares back at her. "Like you said, we just need to call Dad and tell him to come home," she continues. "Everything will be okay, I promise."

"You're not upset with me?" he asks, tentatively, as if frightened of the answer. Trisha laughs a bit.

"Of course I'm not. You haven't done anything wrong. Just don't do any transmutations without me or Dad there anymore, okay?"

"Okay!" His face is splitting into a grin, now—the one that's too wide for his face, the one that Trisha has always loved. (Fifteen-year-old Edward didn't wear it once.) "I'm gonna go find Dad's people book, is that okay? Then we can start calling his friends after dinner!"

She laughs, outright this time, and reaches out to ruffle his hair fondly. "Of course."

.

.

.

.

.

.

The seconds tick by, tortuously slow, as Maes and the others wait for the elder Ed and Al to return to their proper time.

The transmutation seems to have gone off without a hitch; Hohenheim does not look concerned, and Roy says that this is what happened when they arrived, as well; there were several seconds in between.

But as these few seconds pass, Maes can only assume the worst.

Irrational but no less terrifying: the transmutation fails. There is a rebound, and those boys lose even more than they already have—or they simply do not reappear at all.

Unlikely: they come back none the worse for wear...shaken up, of course, but otherwise fine. Nothing terrible has happened to them. (Ha. Maes doubts it. Those boys love their mother far too much.)

Most likely (and the most terrifying): they find their way back, but they are shattered beyond repair.

His mind has always worked too fast; in certain situations, it could mean the difference between life and death, and he is grateful for it. But here, now, when there is nothing he can do but wait, it is not so much a blessing as a curse.

Finally,  _ finally, _ the seconds are spent, and the transmutation fires up for a second time; soon, two figures he knows so well are standing in the living room. Maes takes in the sight of them quickly; Ed's eyes are wide and hugely red; Al's posture is terrified and defensive.

(In all the years Maes has known them, he doesn't think he's ever seen them so vulnerable, and he immediately thinks that the worst has come to pass.)

But ever so slowly, they seem to realize where they are and who is surrounding them. Their backs are to Hohenheim—in hindsight, Maes realizes that this is probably a very good thing—and the first person they see is Winry, standing only a few feet before them. The rest of them seem frozen in time, waiting for the Elrics to move, for them to say something (to do anything to prove they're all right, because Maes isn't so sure). And after several more seconds, they are rewarded; Ed stumbles forward, reaching out toward Winry silently, and engulfs her into an enormous hug.

Winry seems as surprised as anyone but returns the embrace readily, rubbing Ed's back as he attempts to control his sobs. (Maes thinks it's probably because of some semblance of pride, but they all are far beyond that. The boy has every right to cry all he wants.) Al simply collapses to the ground, curling into himself and looking for all the world like a little boy whose universe has just fallen apart.

Before Maes even knows what he's doing, he is crouching by his side, punching his shoulder to get his attention (hugs are useless here, but he wishes so desperately that he could reach this poor boy), and smiling gently as he looks up. Somehow, even though Maes cannot see his expression, he can imagine it; that four-year-old face reflects perfectly onto the large, threatening visage he now wears, and the older man can clearly see the lost, desperate expression he cannot show the world.

"Hey, it'll be all right. Everything's all right now."

A sob echoes out through the helmet, and Al flings his arms around Maes. The metal bites into his skin, but Maes returns the hug without a second thought.

He watches as Hohenheim carefully approaches them, and raises an eyebrow. Al has not been so verbally abusive toward their father as his brother has, but Maes is sure there is resentment there. (He knows he wouldn't blame the boy if there was, and neither would Hohenheim.) He says nothing to the other man, though, and he steps inside the circle—scuffing the edge to ruin it—and puts a tentative hand on his son's metal shoulder.

"Alphonse..."

The boy freezes, apparently trying to place the voice; when he isn't able to recognize it, he releases Maes and turns slowly, looking up into his father's eyes for the first time in twelve years.

Maes isn't sure what he is expecting, does not know either of them quite well enough to gauge how they will react.

(Once it happens, he realizes he shouldn't have been surprised.)

Al is suddenly on his feet, knocking Maes’ arms away, his armor trembling violently as his hands clench into fists. He seems struck silent for a few seconds as they only stare each other down; the clanking drowns out everything else and makes Edward turn, though Al blocks his brother's view of their father. Hohenheim says nothing, only waiting for his son to react.

Finally, he speaks, and as he does his fists jerk spasmodically, as if he has to force himself not to throw a punch. "What the hell do you think you're doing here?"

His voice is broken but venomous; Maes doesn't think he's ever heard Al so angry. Ed lets go of Winry's hand, walking forward and opening his mouth—

But then he sees who Al is talking to and freezes as well. Hohenheim only stares at both of them, his eyes impossibly sad, taking in what his sons have become. Even if they are surely the same people as the young boys who were here minutes ago—with the same mannerisms and the same voices and the same personalities—they are still so different than they once were, and Maes is sure this is tearing Hohenheim apart.

(After all, the Edward and Alphonse he knew first were the young, innocent boys made entirely of flesh and blood. For the rest of them, it has been the opposite—and while this experience has been terrible for all of them, Maes knows it must be the worst for Hohenheim.)

The three of them only stand there for several seconds, each clearly waiting for another to break the silence; nobody else moves, only watching them with bated breath. At last, Hohenheim opens his mouth, looking up at Alphonse with pain clear on his face—

Before he can say anything, though, Ed's face contorts further, and his right fist is flying out of nowhere, punching his father straight in the jaw and sending him crashing to the ground.

Everyone else in the room flinches as one, but Hohenheim only picks himself up slowly, massaging his jaw and looking back at Edward with a solemn look on his face. (Maes realizes that it is a testament to Al's current temper, that he does not rebuke his brother for such a thing.) "I deserved that," Hohenheim says, his eyes steady as he looks over at his older son. "I know I deserved that."

This, clearly, is not what Ed is expecting; he takes a step back, his eyes narrowing as he stares up at his father, clearly looking for some sort of trick. After a beat of silence, he shoots back with—"Al's right. What the hell are you doing here?"

"Your father is the one who figured out how to reverse this, Ed," Maes says carefully, walking to stand between the boys and their father. "The rest of us had no idea how to do it—without him, you'd—"

"We would have figured it out ourselves!" Ed roars. Maes hears Elysia whimper to his right, but he knows Ed wouldn't appreciate it if he was told to quiet down—"We were looking at the array when that bastard reversed it! If—"

"You wouldn't have activated it."

Hohenheim's voice is low but no less audible, and Ed pushes past Maes harshly to stand nose to nose with his father. (He's several inches shorter, but the unadulterated rage makes him look bigger than he really is. In this moment, Maes does not want to be on Edward Elric's bad side.)

"Of course we would have! We didn't  _ deserve _ to stay there, with—with Mom—and she found out what happened, so she was going to try and find  _ you _ so you could get your ass back home and save her—but clearly it didn't work—"

"It might have worked," Hohenheim says. "We have no way of knowing whether it—"

" _ We're here, aren't we? _ " Ed flings his arm behind him, toward the rest of the room before returning his attention to his father. "If Mom didn't die, do you really think—"

"The Trisha you met, the Edward and Alphonse who were here with us...they were from a different timeline. An alternate universe, you could say." Ed opens his mouth, looking outraged; Al makes a strange noise deep in his throat; but before either of them can articulate their thoughts, Hohenheim continues, "When that array was activated, the timelines split. For all we know, that other family could be growing up happy right now. But what happened here has already passed; it can't be changed now."

Ed's mouth only hangs open slightly for a moment, staring at Hohenheim; and suddenly, Maes feels like he is intruding on something far too personal. They're talking of Trisha Elric, a woman they love so much but whom he has never met; they're talking of a life they could have lived, in which he and Roy and everyone else would have no part, but which Ed and Al would give anything to have.

(He shouldn't be here. None of them should be here. This is far too private a conversation to carry on in front of an audience.)

But before he can leave the room, herd everyone else into the kitchen and close the door to give them the space they need...Ed roars in fury and stalks off, letting himself out the front door and slamming it shut behind him. Al follows without a second thought, not sparing a glance for those left in the living room; Hohenheim leaves as well, only pausing to mutter an "I'm sorry" to Maes before the door is closed behind him as well.

The silence in the room is heavy, but nobody breaks it; nobody even thinks of heading out after them.

(Maes disregards Hohenheim's apology, because he knows there is no need for it. Apologizing for your sons' actions when they have just returned from one of the most traumatizing experiences of their lives—a few harsh words and punches thrown are the least of their worries right now.)

They have not broken, as Maes feared, but both boys are teetering on the edge...

He can only hope the strength he's always known them for will be able to pull them back together before it's too late.

.

.

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.

.

The book is old and thick, but things like this have never stopped Ed. He's rushing through dinner, eating as fast as he can so he can start calling people faster. After all, the faster he calls Dad's friends, the faster Dad will come home, right? And they can't take any chances—

"Sweetie, it's okay. It's not going to happen tomorrow," Mom says, smiling at him from across the table. (Al is still asleep upstairs, so they're keeping some of the spaghetti warm for him in the pot.) "The—the  _ older _ you said we've got almost a year."

He isn't willing to take any chances, though...especially where Mom is concerned. "We gotta find Dad," he insists, shoveling a meatball into his mouth and nodding decisively. (And pointedly ignoring the bottle of milk next to him, of course.)

"What did Dad tell you?" she asks suddenly, putting down her fork and frowning over at him. "I know the other you had some trouble finding him."

"He said you...you died," he mumbles the last word, because saying it aloud might make it more likely to happen. "And he didn't come home until after...he couldn't fix you because you were already..."

Mom is quiet for several seconds. "Well, I got very sick. And your older selves didn't start looking for Dad until then. So we should be okay, because I'm not going to get sick for several more months."

He wants to believe her; he  _ does. _ But what if she's wrong, and she gets sick tomorrow? What if it's already too late? He needs to save her, because he can't even  _ imagine _ living without Mom, but what if...

He only narrows his eyes further, eating even faster than before.  _ We gotta call Dad's friends.  _ Only when Dad is home will he feel safe again.

(And he thinks Mom will only be happy again when he comes back, too.)

* * *

He's flipping through the book while Mom puts the dishes away, looking at all the names and numbers. (There are a lot of them, more than he expected.) Some of them are crossed out, but Ed isn't sure why; is Dad not friends with them anymore? Why would he—?

When he shows these to Mom, though, she only gets a strange look on her face and says, "I don't think we need to try and call those people. They must have changed their phone numbers."

(Ed thinks she isn't telling the truth, but she must have a good reason, so he doesn't ask.)

He starts with the first name that isn't marked out, pulling down the phone from the kitchen receiver and standing on a chair to dial the numbers. Mom glances over and opens her mouth to say something to him, but when she sees that he's already calling people, she only laughs a bit and shakes her head. Ed grins over at her, listening to the phone ringing.

Finally, someone picks up, and an older lady's voice says, "Armstrong estate, Mary Waters speaking. How may I be of service?"

_ What? _ "Uh...can I talk to Mister Philip Armstrong, please?" He tries to make his voice sound polite (something Mom says he's never been very good at), but he isn't sure he knows what's going on. Why is a weird lady answering the Armstrongs' phone?

There is a pause on the other line. "What do you need to speak with him about?"

"He's friends with our dad," Ed replies promptly. "I'm trying to find him, and Mister Armstrong's phone number was in Dad's book."

The pause is longer this time. "Let me ask him, okay? I'll be back in a moment." Ed makes an affirmative noise, and then he hears her put the phone down and walk away. He waits impatiently, bouncing on his toes while he waits for someone to come back.

Finally, a deep, booming voice sounds from the other end, so loud that Ed almost tumbles right off the chair in surprise. "Hello, child! How may I help you?"

"Uh, are you Mister Armstrong?" It's definitely not Miss Waters, but Ed checked, and there aren't any other Armstrongs in the A section of the book. (Well, there was one that was scratched out, but Mom said not to worry about those, so...)

"Indeed I am!" His voice does not decrease in volume, and Ed wonders suddenly if he's related to the Mister Armstrong he and Al met in the future. Both of them like to use their outside voices...inside. "Mary said you need my assistance in finding your father? What is his name?"

"Van Hohenheim," he says slowly, because he's always stumbled over the syllables, but he won't let himself mess up when he's talking to an adult. "Have you seen him? Do you know where he is?"

"Van Hohenheim?" The man seems to ponder this for a moment, and Ed almost leans forward in anticipation, as if they're standing right in front of each other. "Very tall with blond hair and glasses? That the one?"

"Yeah!" he says, his grin growing hugely wider.  _ Is it really going to be this easy? _ Does Mister Armstrong know—?

"I'm sorry, son, I haven't seen him since my military days," the older man says, his voice sorrowful. "It's been at least ten years since our last meeting. I wouldn't have any idea where he is now."

"Oh..." Ed deflates all at once, his face falling. "Well, can you call if you see him, please? And ask him to come home?"

"Of course," Armstrong says, his voice still loud but much kinder than before. Ed lists off his phone number, and then they say their good-byes. He hangs up the phone and slouches down into a sitting position. Mom looks over when she realizes he isn't talking anymore; when she sees him sitting on the chair, she hurries over, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"You knew it was going to take more time than that," she says, smiling. (It's the not-quite-happy smile Ed has grown to hate, because it means Mom isn't okay...and if she isn't okay, then he isn't either.  _ He has to find Dad.)  _ "Look, there are tons of names in Dad's book—I'm sure someone knows where he is. You can't give up after just one person, right?"

He nods slowly, because she's right, isn't she?  _ (Of course she is—Mom is always right.) _ So he stands up again, grabbing the book off the counter and finding the next number, pulling the phone down and spinning the dial.

_ We're gonna find Dad. _ Ed doesn't care if he has to go out and get him himself—if that's what it takes to get him home (and keep Mom safe), then that's all right with him.

The phone is ringing, now, and his heart swells in anticipation. Maybe this person will know where Dad is. And if  _ he _ doesn't, maybe the next person will.

After all, Dad hasn't just disappeared out of the country. He has to be  _ somewhere. _

_ (Right?) _

* * *

Al comes downstairs somewhere during the C's, and in all that time, Ed has had no luck with Dad's friends. The best results he's seen so far have come from an old man named Mark Burton, but he saw Dad nearly two months ago, and then only briefly.

_ "If I had to guess, boy, I'd say he's been spending a lot of time in Central. But that's a big place—I'm sorry, but I don't know what else to tell you." _

Ed had resignedly thanked Mister Burton and hung up. He's right, after all; Central is a huge city with tons of people, and knowing that Dad is there somewhere really means nothing to him right now.

"What're you doing, Brother?"

Al's sleepy voice breaks him from his musings, and Ed turns to see him rubbing his eyes, clutching a blanket. "Who's on the phone?"

"I'm looking for Dad," he says, waving the little book toward his brother before bending over it again, marking off the newest disappointment. "Gotta call all his friends to find out where he is."

"Can I help?" Al walks forward quickly, tugging the book out of his hands quickly and looking at all the names. "We just gotta call all these people, right?"

"Yeah," Ed says, slightly miffed that he just took the book without asking or anything. But, it's true that his throat is starting to hurt from all this talking. He definitely wouldn't mind letting Al call people for a bit. "I just hung up with Missus Christmas, so you should start with Mister Clearwater."

"Okay!" Al jumps up onto the chair, tugging his blanket behind him and pulling the phone down.

"If they don't know where he is, tell them our phone number in case they see him," Ed says quickly. "And be real polite, that's what Mom said."

"I  _ know, _ Brother," Al says, rolling his eyes at him as he carefully reads the phone number. "I'm good at being polite. You're just really, really bad at it."

Ed laughs and punches his brother's shoulder lightly, hopping down and heading into the living room, where Mom is reading. She looks up when he walks in, smiling hopefully and marking her page as he sits down. "Any luck, honey?"

He shakes his head, but he's not going to let himself get upset yet; after all, there are twenty-three more letters to go through before they're out of people, and Dad has lots of friends. "Al's calling them now, 'cause my throat hurts."

Her face falls in sympathy as she puts an arm around his shoulders. "Let me know if you want me to start calling, all right? I know you want to do this yourself, but it's a big task."

He shakes his head quickly, though, because he and Al need to do this. After all, Mom does so much for them all the time—cooking and cleaning and making sure they're okay and making them feel better when they're sad...they need to do something for her, too. "We can do it. We're grown-up enough!"

She laughs  _ (he loves the sound so much) _ and ruffles his hair. "My little man, so grown up...soon, you'll be bigger than all of us, and then what will I do with you?"

* * *

Mom makes them stop at eight, because it's getting late and people aren't going to want to talk on the phone— _ after all, they're going to be going to bed soon, just like you, and everyone will still be there in the morning. _ So Ed grudgingly marks off the last name he called—Missus Sandra Dirk—and leaves the book by the phone for tomorrow, finishing his nightly chores quickly and crawling into bed.

(He hasn't realized how tired he is until now...but it's been an enormously long day—was it only this morning that he found out about the danger Mom is in?—and all he wants to do is sleep. So he resolves to wake up early in the morning to start calling again, because the faster they call people, the faster they'll find Dad...and the faster Mom will be happy again.)

With these comforting thoughts, he quickly drifts off to sleep.

* * *

Al insists he starts the next morning, pouting and clenching his fists in annoyance until Ed gives in. Instead, he helps Mom with the breakfast dishes, cleaning the kitchen (it's a chore he hates doing, but it's not quite as bad when he's doing it with Mom) and listening to Al talk to all the different adults.

It sounds like he's having no more luck than they were last night. Ed supposes he should have expected that, but that doesn't mean he can't be upset about it. After all—as they start in on the few E's in the book—they're slowly running out of options.

(He's trying to stay optimistic, because they're not even halfway through the book yet, but that doesn't mean he can't be scared.)

They're finished before Al's calls are up, so Ed decides to sit at the kitchen table, watching his brother bounce on his toes, waiting for every line to connect...and then watching the dismay flood his face when this newest person says they haven't seen Dad.

Mom is there too, but it looks like she's thinking very hard; her eyes are looking ahead but not focusing on anything, and her mouth is turned down into something that's not quite a frown.

Finally, Al hangs up his last call (A Missus Ellis who has, apparently, not seen Dad in almost four years) and passes the book to Ed, squirming up into Mom's chair and sitting on her lap. It seems to break her out of her reverie, but only barely; she runs her fingers through Al's hair almost absent-mindedly as she continues to look far away.

"You boys know I love you, right?"

The question comes out of nowhere, and Ed jumps as he makes his way over to the phone. "Yeah," he says, turning to look at her worriedly. "We love you too!"

Al nods his fervent agreement, craning his neck to look up at her. "Mom, you okay? Everything's okay, right?"

"Yes, of course," she says after a moment, looking down at Al and smiling. "Just thinking of the boys I met when you switched places...you grow up so well, both of you. I just love you so much."

To Ed's horror, he thinks he can see tears forming in Mom's eyes. He drops the book on the phone chair, hurrying back over and hugging her as best he can. "Mom, everything'll be okay, promise! We're gonna find Dad, right?"

He feels her nod her agreement, though a few tears drip down onto Ed's nose. "I know it will...I just worry too much."

Ed hugs her tighter, burying his face in her chest. He doesn't understand exactly what she's upset about—because it seems like what will happen to  _ her _ isn't the problem—but he has to try and make her feel better, right? After all, that's an equivalent exchange—it's what she does for them, so they should do it for her, too.

(And he hopes that once Dad comes home, she won't have to cry at all, because she'll never be sad again.)

* * *

_ "Dad? Daddy! Is that you?" _

An hour or so later, Al's shrill, excited voice carries from the kitchen, out the open window and into the garden. Ed and Mom only stare at each other for a moment before abandoning the weeds, rushing back inside.

* * *

Major General Grumman is not having a particularly good day.

Stationed at the Eastern Command Center, it's his job to keep Central abreast of all the developments in Ishval...the conflict is only growing, though, and he isn't sure that there's any way this can end well. Dozens are dying every day; even if he has been in the military all his life, he knows he'll never get used to such things, and the numbers simply make him nauseous.

But that isn't what he needs to focus on right now—at least, not directly. His current appointment is an acquaintance he hasn't seen in many years but who doesn't seem to have changed at all; Van Hohenheim is seated heavily in the chair across the desk, rubbing the bridge of his nose, and Grumman is sure there's more going on that he isn't saying.

(Maybe it's his business to know, and maybe it's not, but that doesn't mean he can't wonder.)

They're nearly finished—Hohenheim just needed to ask him several questions about the conflict in Ishval (specifically the body count, which Grumman doesn't understand but sees no reason to keep hidden), and now he looks like he is preparing to go.

The phone on his desk rings suddenly, loud in the heavy silence of the room, and Hohenheim gestures for him to take it, standing up and wrapping his coat around his shoulders.

"Thank you very much for your time...may I contact you if I need anything else?"

"Of course," he says immediately, both out of courtesy and because he wants to figure this man out. The last time he saw Van Hohenheim was at least ten years ago, but he hasn't aged a day since then. How this is possible, he has no idea—but he's always loved a good puzzle.

He picks up the phone as Hohenheim lets himself out and waits patiently for the operator to connect whomever it is, but she only says, sounding rather bemused—"There's a little boy on an outside line asking to speak to you. He said he's looking for his father, and that you might know where he is."

Well, this is unexpected. But he isn't tied up, and if he can find a legitimate distraction from the paperwork, why not? "I'm not busy—go ahead and connect him."

There is silence on the line for several seconds as the operator works, and then a click. "Hello?" Grumman says, trying to make his voice sound kind. After all, he is a grandfather. Such things should come easily to him, but he doesn't want to scare the boy. "This is General Grumman."

"Hello," a voice replies, rather uncertain, and  _ damn _ but he is young. Grumman's sure he can't be any older than five as he continues—"You're—you're not busy, are you? The lady said you're really important and I shouldn't be bothering you..."

"No, child, I'm not busy," he says, smiling despite himself. "She said you need help finding your father? I'll do my best. What is his name?"

"Thank you," he says, and his voice is rushed and intensely relieved. "His name's Van Hohenheim. He's got your name in a book, so—"

"Van Hohenheim?" he repeats, the pit dropping out of his stomach.

"Yeah," he says, sounding hopeful. "Do you know where he is?"

He's struck dumb for a moment, only staring at the chair the man had occupied before his gaze travels to the door. "I'll—I'll be right back. Wait just a moment." And before the boy can reply, he has put the phone carefully onto his desk and dashed out the door.

Hohenheim is several seconds ahead of him, but Grumman is running; he makes his way through the mess of people that has always occupied Eastern Command, searching for that head of strange blond hair that is taller than most.

And after a moment, he sees him, nearing the front door in his old brown coat and battered suitcase. "Hohenheim!" he calls, several feet behind him, causing many to turn. He has a bit of an eccentric reputation, though, and people soon dismiss him, leaving him to his "antics." Usually, that  _ is _ what he'd be doing, but in this case... "Hohenheim, wait!"

The man turns, looking confused, as Grumman finally catches up with him. He only grabs his arm, though, wheezing out air through his mouth, and pulls him back the way they came. "General, what's wrong?" Hohenheim asks, clearly concerned. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes, yes," he says immediately. "I just got a phone call...and he was asking for you."

Hohenheim stops dead in his tracks, and as Grumman looks up at him, his eyes have narrowed and his back is rigid. "Who is it?"

"A little boy, says he's your son," he replies quickly, staring up at him and wondering at his reaction. "He's waiting on the line now—you need to—"

His face transforms, suddenly and completely; he says nothing, but his eyes are wide, and he sweeps past Grumman, leading the way back to the office. And once they're inside, he almost runs to the telephone, glancing toward Grumman for permission before picking it up. "Hello?"

Even from several feet away, Grumman can hear the boy clearly.  _ "Dad? Daddy! Is that you?" _

"Alphonse?" Hohenheim says, and his face shows only surprise as he drops his suitcase, gripping the desk with his free hand for support as his balance wavers. "Alphonse, how did you get General Grumman's phone number?"

_ "It was in your people book—but listen, you gotta come home, okay? Brother says you have to—and Mom—" _

Hohenheim looks completely confused as he listens for several more seconds; then, another voice, quieter, sounds from the earpiece, too quiet for Grumman to make out, and his face crumples in pain. "Trisha..."

He listens for several more seconds, not moving, showing no more emotion...but slowly, he begins to nod. "I need—there are a few things I need to wrap up here, in East City, but I'll head home right after. Should be there within three days. Is that—?"

(Another childish voice, indignant and loud, and Grumman finds himself grinning. A brother?) "No, Edward, I promise everything will be fine. Nothing is going to happen in three days." Another pause. "I—I love you guys, too. See you soon." And then he is hanging up the phone, sighing heavily and running a hand through his bangs.

"The Missus getting impatient?" Grumman guesses, smiling a bit. It is absolutely not his place to ask, but he sees no harm in it. After all, if Hohenheim has a wife and small children at home, he shouldn't be away for too long.

Hohenheim almost laughs, picking up his case again. "My sons, rather...but I really should be getting home. I've been gone for too long." He takes a step toward the door, but pauses. "Thank you." Grumman is sure the words are heartfelt as the man bows slightly to him. (He thinks he sees tears glistening in his eyes as well.) "I—I haven't talked to them in so long, I almost forgot..."

He chokes over his words and falls silent, but before Grumman can reply, Hohenheim is gone.

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Roy knows they need this, that the Elrics need to get themselves sorted out before they return to the house...but that doesn't mean he can't worry.

For years, he's done his best to seem detached from them...but that's an act, done mostly to protect them from the unwanted, prying eyes of his superiors. Ed keeps such a high profile on his own; the last thing Roy wants to do is attract more attention to him. After all, the military brass is a dangerous group—they would use the boys' talents for their own gain without a second thought.

But in truth, he cares about those boys like they were his own sons, and seeing them so damaged is more painful than any wound an enemy could inflict upon him.

As the minutes stretch into an hour and there is still no sign of any of them returning, he glances around the room, assessing the damage. Winry is collapsed onto the floor, and Gracia is with her, rubbing her back and whispering things Roy can't make out. Maes is sitting in an armchair, his head in his hands. Armstrong is on the couch with perhaps the most serious expression Roy has ever seen on his face.

This is so  _ disgustingly _ wrong, and he can't believe it was allowed to happen. All those boys have ever wanted is to see their mother again, even though they knew it to be impossible, but—

Seeing her again after so long and then being forced to give her up—believing they didn't  _ deserve _ to stay there—that, surely, is worse than anything else they have endured. Roy doesn't remember his parents—they died when he was barely starting to crawl—and he knows he doesn't understand the Elrics' situation. But the fact that Edward thinks so lowly of himself— 

(He'd give anything to make their lives right, because if anyone deserves it, it's them. But he doesn't even know where to start.)

* * *

Finally,  _ finally, _ the door knob turns, and Ed and Al enter the apartment again.

(Hohenheim is nowhere to be seen. Roy doubts that he will return.)

Looking at these boys, Roy finds it impossible to know what Al is feeling right now, even after all this time spent working with him. But Edward is displaying enough emotion for both of them: his mouth is downturned in a frown so deep that it looks physically painful as he slams the door harshly behind him.

(The redness of his eyes and the trembling of his hands reveal more than he would ever willingly show.)

Winry—Roy barely knows her, only by reputation, but she's the closest thing the Elrics have to family right now—is upon them within seconds, and it looks like she's trying to decide between hitting them and hugging them as they turn to look. Eventually, she settles on simply standing there, her face a mask of anguish, asking—"What the  _ hell _ did you think you were doing?"

Ed doesn't seem to be able to find an answer; he only shakes his head, walking past her and collapsing onto the couch next to Armstrong. Al stands by Winry for a moment, clearly unsure of what to do. Everyone is looking at either him or Edward, waiting for something to happen.

(Roy can't bear to look at Alphonse for too long, though. Before, he had known the armored helmet wasn't his true face, but he had never seen a photograph of his human body; he had no idea what he is supposed to look like. But now he can barely stand it, because all he can see is the ghost of that little boy standing where Al is now, staring around with wide golden eyes and wondering what in the world he is supposed to do.)

(After all, he's only ever been a child.)

Maes—wonderful man that he is—takes control, standing up and rubbing his face for a moment before saying in a falsely cheery voice—"Gracia's got dinner ready! Let's go eat, yeah? I'm sure we'll feel better afterward."

And even if Roy isn't sure it's true—and he thinks Maes knows it as well—he stands up with the rest of them, heading into the kitchen to help set the table.

Dinner is a quiet affair. Roy might even call it awkward, especially because Al is simply sitting there, watching them all... He realizes that for as long as he's known these boys, he's never known them outside of a professional setting. He's never eaten a meal with them, never just sat and talked about nothing like friends.

(Or fathers...)

He's not their father—knows they wouldn't appreciate it if he considered himself as such—but he can't help but feel the need to shelter these boys, to try and protect them from the horrors they haven't met yet. But he's realizing that those are few in number (no matter how terrible), because Al can't eat and they all know it, but it's obviously killing Edward to eat dinner in front of his brother. Roy sees him glance toward Al every several seconds, guilt clear on his face.

(They've been living like this for  _ almost five years. _ )

Nobody asks them how the conversation with their father went; it's not their place, and they clearly don't want to talk about it. Even Elysia seems to notice that something is  _ off, _ because she sits quietly at her place between Winry and Gracia, eating without saying a word and only sending the occasional glance toward Edward.

She doesn't know what is happening, doesn't realize the weight that has fallen on all of their shoulders—and suddenly, Roy almost wishes to be young again, to be innocent of the true horrors of the world. Elysia is three years old, younger even than the Elrics they met for that short period of time...

"Uncle Ed?" she says suddenly, breaking the silence and causing everyone to look up in surprise. Ed jumps terribly, looking toward her with wide eyes. "Are you okay? Why are you so sad? Did something happen?"

Ed stares at her like a deer in headlights before shifting his gaze to Maes, obviously at a loss for words. But how can any of them possibly explain this situation to her? Elysia is so young, and though she is bright, she's no genius like the Elrics. She wouldn't understand.

Maes clears his throat, glancing at Ed for permission before saying slowly—"You—you know how you have a Mommy and a Daddy, Elysia?"

She nods, beaming at him. "Well, Uncle Ed and Uncle Al...their Daddy, Mister Hohenheim, had to go away when they were about your age, and they haven't seen him in a very long time. And their Mommy had to go away too, but she isn't going to be able to come back. So they're just feeling sad right now, because they miss their Mommy and they're very confused about their Daddy, because he hasn't been able to live with them for so long."

Her face falls, looking in concern over toward Ed and Al. "Is your Mommy nice? Is that why you miss her?"

Ed's face is shielded by his bangs, but he nods slowly, saying nothing. "Well," Elysia says, her face brightening, "do you want to share  _ my _ Mommy? She's nice too! That way, you can be happy!"

Al shifts beside Ed, but before he can say anything, Ed has lifted his head, obviously doing his best to smile at her. "Sure, I think we'd like that. But Winry has to share your mom and dad too, okay?"

She nods immediately, beaming at him before tugging on Winry's hand. "Big Sis already shares Mommy and Daddy!"

Winry laughs, patting Elysia on the head. "That's right, little sis."

Somehow, the trance seems to be broken; though Ed is still quieter than Roy has ever seen him, he seems more alive, answering Winry's questions in a low tone rather than ignoring them completely. Roy finds himself smiling about this, despite himself. They'll be okay; he realizes this now. Those boys—they're so strong, despite (or maybe because of) the Hell they've been through.

(It's a different brand than what he himself has experienced, but Roy knows it's no less terrible...and they lived through all of it before their childhood was even allowed to end.)

Maes is wearing a relieved smile, and Armstrong has regained some of his boisterous personality that he seems so empty without. Roy allows himself to relax, though he knows this is far from over. Maybe  _ (hopefully) _ , everything will turn out all right.

* * *

(Hohenheim's story, his warnings and conjectures and predictions, never leave the back of his mind...and as he returns to work the next day, he resolves to keep a closer eye on the brass as they move ever closer to the apocalypse.)

* * *

The man seems to have fallen off the map.

Roy knows that Maes has done some checking into the archives, looking for a man named Van Hohenheim, but nothing turns up...at least officially. Roy knows there are at least four books in his study that bear the man's name (and several are decades—if not centuries—old), but there are no birth records, no marriage records (suddenly, the lack of a common name between him and the Elrics makes sense), absolutely  _ nothing. _ It's as if, to the military, Van Hohenheim has never existed.

But he listens and learns, and is more careful than he has been in the past, because he's sure he can't trust anyone in the upper echelons except Generals Grumman and Armstrong. (He's had no correspondence with her in years, but Alex has assured him that she would never have a part in such things...and going off what he knows of her, Roy thinks he's probably right.) But two generals in the whole of Amestris are few in comparison, and with next to no information about these monsters or how they are going to attack...

It's been a week since it all happened, and everything is starting to return to normal. Edward has returned to his loud, raucous self (in public, at least; Roy has no idea what happens when he and Al are alone. He resolves to take them both out somewhere soon, just to talk), and his transfer to Central has gone more smoothly than he had hoped. Falman is hiding out with the murderer Barry the Chopper, waiting for orders; Hawkeye, Havoc, and Fuery are spread out over the more populated areas of Central, keeping an eye out for these damned Homunculi; Breda is on hand, ready to be anywhere at a moment's notice if Roy needs back-up...

He thinks furiously of Hohenheim's vague explanation, and wonders whether he's going to decide to be of any more help or if they're going to have to figure this out for themselves. Either way, he refuses to put his subordinates' lives on the line any more than they already have themselves.

(Then he thinks that maybe he should send Ed away on leave, force him to return to Resembool for a few days just to relax. The dark circles under his eyes belie the exuberant exterior he always tries to uphold, and Roy is sure Alphonse is no less exhausted, mentally.)

Everything seems to be in order that afternoon as he finally allows himself to relax in his office. There are several men at the desks before him (strange, unknown. He knows he should trust them, but he just  _ can't _ ) diligently working on paperwork, and though Roy has a large stack of unfinished filing before him, he  _ really _ doesn't feel like working on it. So he's just about ready to call "Elizabeth" and check up on the "shop," make sure everything on the outside is still running smoothly, when there is a loud knock on the door.

"Colonel Mustang has a delivery from General Grumman in Eastern Command, Sir," a young, male voice calls through the door. (Roy can almost  _ hear _ his rigid back and shaking hands. Must be a new recruit.)

"Come in," he calls back, settling back into his chair more comfortably as a man (sure enough, far too young to be anything but straight out of the academy) opens the door with some difficulty. The package in his hands is large— 

_ Just about the size of a chess set. _

"Thank you, Corporal," he says, accepting the package easily and nodding to the boy. "That'll be all."

"Y-yes sir!" The boy salutes quickly, his heels snapping together, and as soon as Roy waves his hand, he is gone.

* * *

Later that night, in the privacy of his own home, he finally opens the package.

It is indeed a chess set, accompanied by a note hastily scrawled in the general's handwriting—

_ Received this from an old, mutual friend and thought you might appreciate it more than I. Perhaps you'll be able to improve your record! _

_ He sends his regards and promises to stay in touch. Mentioned that he'll be home for several days next week, but after that should be making his way to Central. _

Roy allows a smile to slip onto his face, rereading the letter to be sure before removing the chess set. Surely, the old man is talking about Hohenheim...

So he removes the pieces one by one, unscrewing the bottom to check for messages. And sure enough, there are nine: eight are drawings, and another is a note—one drawing is in the black king, and the rest he finds in the black pawns. The note, scarcely a scrap of paper, reads—

_ These are the Homunculi. Greed may be gone; I cannot tell, but if he appears again with a different face, I will contact you. _

_ It's too dangerous to meet in person. They know my face, and you are a target. Watch yourself. _

The image found in the king's piece is the spitting image of Hohenheim—so much so, in fact, that for a moment, Roy can only stare. But he trusts the Elrics' father, and he had said that one of the Homunculi was his "blood brother"...

(And though he isn't entirely sure what that means, he supposes it doesn't matter right now.)

The other seven are not so much of a surprise—drawings of various people with their names printed underneath them.  _ Lust. Gluttony. Envy . _ Wrath—the Fuhrer—how is it that he isn't even surprised? The only one that gives him pause is Pride— _ Selim Bradley? _ The face drawn carefully onto the small piece of paper is undoubtedly the Fuhrer's son, but Roy has met the boy; he had no idea. Selim has seemed just like any other child for  _ years _ .

He shakes his head and crumples the slips of paper before burning them, singeing the images into his memory as he does so. He'll have to send the Elrics to Resembool next week—that much is obvious. Clearly, either Hohenheim has something he needs to tell them, or they have yet-unfinished business from last week.

They won't be happy about it, but this needs to be resolved one way or another. Hohenheim is a key player in whatever is unfolding across the country, and to survive, they need to be able to trust him.

He packs the set away, planning to take it out again when this is all over.

* * *

The Elrics venture to Resembool, and then to Briggs, and he loses contact with them soon after. He tries not to worry, because at this point it's been at least a month and they've definitely recovered, but that doesn't mean he can't be concerned.

After all, he knows both Scar and Kimblee are journeying north as well—and he isn't sure which man is more dangerous.

He knows Lust is dead; he knows the identities of the other six Homunculi, and knows the face of their leader. He knows, idealistically, how to defeat them.

But in practice, he knows, it will be entirely different...and he only hopes that they are all up to the challenge.

* * *

Months later, when the Promised Day has arrived and Hohenheim returns to fight, Roy trusts him completely. And judging by the way his sons are fighting alongside, they do as well.

(And after it's all over, when Alphonse has been returned to his body and everything is right in the world again, he thinks he would give anything to see Hohenheim's face, because he can imagine the relief and the happiness but he's sure the real thing is so much more. Even if the battle has drained him—so much, in fact, that Roy is sure he doesn't have much time left—Hohenheim is surely the happiest he has been in years.)

* * *

When he receives the notice of Hohenheim's death, he ventures to Resembool for the funeral, because surely, without this man, this country would be reduced to dust.

The cemetery is sparsely populated that morning; Pinako Rockbell is there with Winry and the Elrics, and a few older people from town...but he, the Hugheses, and Major Armstrong are the only ones who travel from Central. And even though nobody else seems to mind, even though Roy is sure the man would have hated a large event...

He can't help but feel that Hohenheim has been cheated, in a way. If he had not been so strong, so brave and so selfless to take on that inhuman monster nearly single-handedly— 

There are no dates on the headstone (and Roy wonders suddenly just how old the man was), but it is next to Trisha Elric's; hers is old and worn but well taken care of, with a beautiful wreath of flowers adorning the base.

He thinks that, here, Van Hohenheim might finally find some happiness.

(And if he sees tears in Edward's eyes, in Alphonse's— _ he can cry again _ and Roy doesn't think he's seen anything so beautiful as those two boys returned to the flesh—he does not mention it.)

* * *

Before he returns to Central, he pays a visit to the graves, alone. He's not entirely sure what he's doing there, but he feels like he should thank them. For bringing up such strong boys, for being the parents Edward and Alphonse still miss terribly, even after so long...for  _ everything. _

He stands there silently for several minutes, not speaking, because he can't possibly piece together the words he needs them to hear. He can't possibly express his gratitude...

So he only claps gently. Soon, another wreath adorns Trisha's grave, and then there is a matching one for Hohenheim.

Without another word, he turns and leaves the cemetery behind.

* * *

A few weeks later, when Ed returns to Central to finalize his resignation and officially detach himself from the military, Roy offers for him to come over for dinner. Suspiciously, reluctantly, the boy  _ (man) _ agrees.

He pulls out the chess set after they eat and asks if he wants to play. Ed laughs (his smile is hugely wide, too big for his face. Roy's never seen one like it) and says he's shit at that game; Roy wouldn't want to waste his time.

Roy decides that this suits him a bit too well.

(But if the idea of strategy, of war, is so foreign to the boy now—if he has finally found peace, at home, with his brother and the memory of his parents—he finds that he can't slight the boy for it.)

After all, that's where Edward Elric has always belonged..

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Three days pass in a flurry of excitement and eager anticipation.

Trisha knows that Van will not care, but she finds herself compulsively cleaning; she puts away the beds her older sons had used with some difficulty (after all, Ed and Al are far too small to be moving mattresses right now), straightening pictures and dusting every horizontal surface, tidying up the kitchen and the living room and bedrooms. It's stupid of her, but it's better to do this than nothing as they can only wait for his return.

Ed is antsy, looking out the window every chance he gets and glancing at Trisha almost constantly, as if to make sure she is still all right. She doesn't know how many times she has assured him that she feels fine; there is no sickness in town yet; they have plenty of time—but he doesn't seem able to stop worrying.

(She's not sure she can blame him, especially after what she saw of her older sons.)

At long last, the third day arrives, and Trisha bustles around as long as she can before she finally collapses into an armchair in the living room. She'd start a fire, but it's the middle of the summer; she would sweep, but she's already done that twice.

She's called the Rockbells, told them that the transmutation has reversed and that Van is coming home. (Sara answered, and the grateful sobs that choked her voice tell Trisha that she  _ knew. _ Edward must have told her and Pinako what happened when they came yesterday for...for what? For automail repairs? She realizes she never found out what had ailed her son.)

(Ed demanded he speak on the phone with Sara for a moment, and Trisha complied, rather bemused. He ordered her not to go to—to Ishval? Winry, in the future, doesn't want her parents to go to the small state in the east. Trisha knows there have been some skirmishes there, but why would the Rockbells be called in?)

(Edward looks very serious about it, though, and he's the one who has spoken to Winry. She doesn't question it, and decides to wait for time to take its course.)

But now she's sitting in the living room, out of things to do and simply waiting. Ed and Al find their way in soon after, climbing up onto the armrests and holding tight to her, as if such a grip will make their father come home faster. She laughs, asks if they're all right with just sitting and waiting—but they assure her in no uncertain terms that they are, so they simply fall silent, waiting for the inevitable.

* * *

Finally, sometime that afternoon, there is a knock at the door.

* * *

Trisha doesn't remember much after that; she remembers Ed and Al rushing to the door faster than she's ever seen them run, yanking it open and flinging themselves at their father as he attempts to step over the threshold. She remembers following after them at a slower pace, smiling broadly as Van laughs and picks both of them up into his arms, carrying them inside.

Edward is talking and Alphonse is talking and there is a strange buzzing in her head that sounds a bit like euphoria, like something she hasn't felt in far too long because  _ he was gone _ but  _ now he's back  _ and surely, everything will be all right now. They're in the kitchen, and she's putting the kettle on while Ed and Al tell their father of the transmutation, of how they traveled to the future and met him there, and how they're  _ so happy _ he's back because his older self made them promise to find him—

(Ed says nothing about the darker things, even though Trisha can see that he wants to—if only to keep his father from leaving again. But she'll have to talk to him later, anyway, about  _ everything.  _ Even if Edward found out about her death, that is only the tip of the iceberg...and she has to thank Mustang and the others for doing their best to keep everything else from them. She can't even  _ imagine... _ )

But there is no time for thinking of such things now.  _ They have succeeded. _ They found Van and called him home, and she knows, now, for sure, that in that other future, only a terrible combination of worst-case scenario and tragic circumstances caused such horrors.

Now, all of that has been averted, and  _ we will be all right. _

Al is running up to her, now, tugging on her skirt and telling her to come over to the table because _we haven't seen Dad in_ _so long_ and _he said he's missed all of us_ and _aren't you happy he's back now?_ The grin on his face, on Ed's as he climbs up into Van's lap (he flinches, like he always has, but he quickly relaxes, and she thinks he might be getting better), is infectious, and soon, the four of them are laughing together, hugging and _never letting go_ like the family they always have been—the family they will now have the chance to be.

She knows she will never forget the boys she spent two fleeting days with, the Alphonse who has lost almost everything and the Edward who has nearly driven himself mad trying to return it. She will never forget them, because she did not lie when she said that they are her sons. She loves them,  _ so much, _ just as much as the boys who are with her now. But at the same time, she is so immensely glad that they have changed the future, in this time and place. Knowing what would have happened...

They were so assuredly her sons, and she is their mother (because the adoration clear on Edward's face, in Alphonse's voice, was so obvious that it makes her want to tear apart the universe if only to make their lives right again), but she can do nothing for them now. She is here, and they are there, and all she can do now is pray that they will find the answers they need. She doesn't think she's felt so powerless in all her life.

But they are Edward and Alphonse Elric, sons of her husband (the strongest and bravest man she's ever known), and she is sure everything will turn out all right. She saw the determination in their eyes, saw how sure they were of defeating the demons that have overrun their lives.

She will live, here; she will not die, and she will watch her sons grow up into the men she now knows they will be. She will live, but she will remember the time when she did not...

She will move on, but she will not forget.

(She owes them that much, after all.)

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End file.
